


Disparu Au Rouge

by daphnerunning, Galiko



Series: A Melting, Fading World [2]
Category: Magi: The Labyrinth of Magic
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Drama, F/M, M/M, Multi, Oral Sex, Public Sex, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-11
Updated: 2013-04-06
Packaged: 2017-11-20 20:36:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 122,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/589392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daphnerunning/pseuds/daphnerunning, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Galiko/pseuds/Galiko
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Co-written with DaphneRunning. Sequel to Fondu Au Noir (literally, nothing will make sense here if you don't read that first!)--relatively AU to the current manga serialization due to certain events. Two years after the war against the Kou Empire, a sense of relative normalcy is in place--save for the unease brought about by Judal's slowly changing rukh, and the eyes that never seem to stop watching him. Aladdin tries to fix everything as per usual, and from there, things spiral out of control...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Night in Balbadd is always warm these days. The breezes shift uneasily, bringing smells of the South, ruffling the hair around Aladdin’s face, combing through the loose, unbound mess of the rest of it. A tiny white flower peeks up at him through a crack in the wooden window frame; hardly unusual, that. Flowers and grass and little tiny trees have cropped up all over Balbadd, shoving cobblestones aside and worming their way through anywhere left unattended for a few hours. It’s nearly as bad now as Sindria had been, before they’d left.

 

The breeze picks up, changes, this time a chill breeze from the North. Aladdin breathes in deeply, tasting the magical currents on the breeze, and he _knows_.

 

It’s time.

 

He speaks the words to a spell Judal had taught him years ago, and his hair braids itself, just as he reaches for the rumpled cloth lying on the floor, winding it carefully around his head. It will be hot, as hot as here, where he’s going.

 

For a brief second, he considers sneaking out the window; he _hates_ goodbyes.

 

But….he deserves better than that.

 

Aladdin kneels on the bed, leaning down to brush a kiss across Judal’s forehead. His rukh flutters, a little confused and nervous, and Aladdin sends his will out, calming it. _He’s trying,_ he reminds it. There’s _less_ of a dark swirl in Judal’s rukh now than there had been, but it’s a struggle every day, those bad habits so easy to fall into no matter how he tries. 

 

It’s why Aladdin has to go.

 

Judal stirs, shifting on the mussed pile of silk and pillows to peer blearily up through the loose, heavy fall of his hair. "… Aladdin?" The sun is far from being up, and the night breeze is humid and balmy, as far inland as they are. The ports of Balbadd are different--all that fog obnoxious and unpleasant and cold--but they had stayed there, too, as long as Judal could stand it, for Aladdin's sake. 

 

He yawns, stretching out a hand to grasp the other Magi's arm. "What's wrong? Come back to bed."

 

“I can’t. I’m leaving.”

 

Judal is awake now.

 

His fingers tighten. "So let me come, too."

 

Aladdin wants to. His hand comes up to stroke Judal’s cheek, and even that is almost enough to convince him to stay. “You can’t. You _know_ that.”

 

"I can so! Sindria is doing fine, I haven't even been there in a year and they haven't _needed_ me and--" Judal's head shoves forward, butting against Aladdin's hand. "I don't _want_ to be alone."

 

_He watches me even more when you aren't here, I can't do this._

 

“Judal….”

 

This is why he has to go, he _knows_. Because Judal hasn’t been free in a while, and because nothing’s going to get any better if he doesn’t _go_.

 

He crawls onto the bed, wrapping Judal in his arms, and nods his head at the window, and the cloudless spring night. “By the time winter’s over,” he promises. “I’ll be back.”

 

"… Too long," is the tired mumble into Aladdin's shoulder. Judal pulls away, sniffing, leaving Aladdin's shoulder wet. "Fine. Whatever. Just leave me, then." 

 

A thousand things come to Aladdin’s mind-- _you know I have to go, you know this is for your sake, you know it hurts me just as much, I’ll think of you every day while I’m gone_ \--but he says none of them. If Judal didn’t know those things, Aladdin wouldn’t have to go. He tilts Judal’s head up, pressing a soft kiss to one of his tear-streaked cheeks. “Stay safe for me, will you? I need to know I’m coming home to you.”

 

Judal exhales a wet huff, smacking his hand away, never mind that there's no real aggression there. " _If_ you're coming home." He pulls back, wiping a finger delicately underneath one eye. "The last time was five _years_ , you always get sidetracked. Just…" His lower lip trembles. "Just hurry up and go before I _make_ you stay."

 

Aladdin’s smile wavers. “Can I have a goodbye kiss?”

 

The childish, petulant urge to tell him _no_ rises up sharply. But he can't, he just can't. "Only a little one." 

 

Aladdin claims it himself, leaning down to brush his lips against Judal’s, too brief, too light to be satisfying, and pulls away with a visible effort. Blue eyes twinkle, and he says, voice steady, “Any more than that and I won’t be able to leave you.”

 

There’s no use putting it off. It’s only worse for Judal that way, and he _has_ to go.

 

He hates the word, so he squeezes Judal’s hand, and whips the turban off his head, leaping out the window and soaring away into the sunrise.

 

~~

 

This is not a good day.

 

Sometimes Sinbad can tell before he even wakes up, and this is _certainly_ one of those days. No matter that the allocation and relocation of the second portion of Sindria raised from the sea is finally _finished_ , with thriving markets and happy children (far too many of whom are under the age of three, but that is, apparently, only _natural_ ), and everything _should_ be fine.

 

There’s something in the air, crackling and unsteady, but the first hint he gets is when a messenger bird drops a scroll into his hand. It takes him a few seconds to read the flowing legal speak, but when he finishes, he has to work hard not to crush the scroll into powder between his fingers.

 

He takes off along the corridor, robes streaming behind him, and crashes his way into the council meeting. It’s not the sort of meeting he’s generally required to attend, day-to-day briefings about coding and zoning laws, but all his generals will be there, and one in particular draws his eye. He slams the scroll down on the table, meeting Alibaba’s eyes, a furious challenge in his own. “What’s the meaning of this?”

 

Ja'far, in the middle of the first briefings, immediately opens his mouth to say something about Sinbad's rather poor entrance, and how a king should set a far better example for at _least_ his generals--

 

And then he shuts up, and takes that opportunity to simply get off of his feet and sit down, smoothing his robes as Alibaba _clearly_ seems to know what is going on, and what he has _done_ , above and beyond that.

 

The blond's chin immediately juts out and up, no matter how he might have shivered a little at the outright _rage_ that filters over Sinbad's face. Truth be told, he didn't _quite_ expect a reaction like that… nor did he expect his messengers to be so swift-footed. _That's what I get for putting off this conversation_ , he wearily thinks. _Reap what I sow, indeed._

 

"Laem came to me with a proposal. I accepted, for the better of my country."

 

“ _Your_ country,” Sinbad repeats, eyes blazing dangerously. “This is an _illegal_ contract for trade and tariff negotiation, because Balbadd _isn’t your country!_ Scheherezade can be forgiven for not understanding, but you _signed your country over to me_. Balbadd is _my_ country, held in trust for an appointed governor! You have _no_ _right_ to make any decisions on its behalf without consulting the other generals and myself!”

 

It’s possible he should have made this clear earlier. Then again, it hadn’t seemed likely to ever _arise_. Alibaba had certainly never _seemed_ inclined to go behind his back, sneaky little traitor.

 

"And _you_ said you'd give Balbadd back once it was stable!" Alibaba lurches to his feet, slamming his hands down onto the table. "It's been two years, Sinbad! I want it back--I'm _taking_ it back, and that _contract_ will stay!"

 

“The _agreement_ ,” Sinbad retorts, leaning over the table to face Alibaba, the little _coward_ , the little _idiot_ , “was that I would _assist you_ in forming a _system of government_ that _worked_. The only reason your people aren’t still starving is because I lent you my Magi for the last _year_! You have _no_ parliament, _no_ governor, _no_ education for voting citizens, which are the things _you told me_ you wanted to have in place! You can’t _take it back_ when you don’t even have _standing_ there! All you are is a citizen!”

 

"I have standing there!" is the resolute snap of a reply, and Alibaba slaps a hand against his own chest. "My father left Balbadd to _me!_ If you think I'm ungrateful for everything you've done, you're _wrong_. I'm very grateful, and I'm very glad for all of your help, but Balbadd is still _mine._ That contract with Laem is my first official document I'll sign as Balbadd's king, that's what my people _want!"_

 

"Oh, dear god," is Ja'far's low mutter, a pair of fingers digging into the bridge of his nose. 

 

Sinbad goes very quiet. He meets Alibaba’s eyes, and he doesn’t want to _know_ what Judal would see about his magoi right now. “And if,” he asks quietly, “I refuse?”

 

"I would appreciate it," Alibaba carefully begins, meeting Sinbad's gaze with a slowly drawn breath, "if you didn't." 

 

“I could. Easily.”

 

"I'm asking you not to, though."

 

“Yes, you are.” Sinbad’s eyes narrow. “Give me one good reason why I should allow this.”

 

Alibaba draws in a slow breath. "Because I will still give Sindria trade priorities in our waters, and _gladly_ return the favor of _my_ Magi, should you ever wish it. Also," he adds a little more weakly, "I was hoping, honestly, to be _less_ of a burden upon Sindria by doing this. You have supported Balbadd for so long--it's the least I can to, to become independent again."

 

“Those words would ring truer had you not gone behind my back to forge a contract with Laem,” Sinbad points out, straightening up. He looks to Ja’far, and Sharrkan, and frowns. “I will think about it.  There is much to discuss. Running a country isn’t simply trade.”

 

"… I meant to come to you a few days ago, _truthfully_ ," Alibaba attempts, sinking back with a weary sigh. "My messengers were a bit faster than I expected, and I received word from Balbadd that Aladdin left, so I was a bit… distracted." 

 

“It does beg the question,” Sinbad drawls, “of why you _have_ your own messengers, or thought to send them to forge private contracts in the first place.” _Don’t try to worm your way out of this by feigning weakness, Saluja. I know you of old._

 

"I was attempting foresight?" is the quip that Alibaba _probably_ shouldn't offer. 

 

"Enough," Ja'far finally deigns to interrupt on a sigh, his _own_ foresight already seeing another heated argument brewing. He stands, resting his hands upon the table. "Sin, if you'd like to mull this over, then please do so outside of the council meeting. Otherwise, sit and join us and--"

 

As always, the windows of Sindria's palace are tall and open wide, allowing the sea breezes to cool it easily. It is far from a sea breeze that rushes through just then, though--starkly cold and making even Ja'far shiver down to his bones, and the brewing rains born of humidity outside quickly _chill_. 

 

"What the…" Pisti is the first to rise, darting over to the window and leaning nearly entirely out of it. "It's… is the rain _frozen?_ " she asks, craning her head around and blinking when a solid flake of snow falls directly onto her forehead.

 

 _It's just going to be one of those days_ , Ja'far grimly thinks. 

 

A shiver goes through Sinbad--he _hates_ snow--and only with a massive effort does he keep from huddling down behind Masrur. This is almost certainly nothing he needs, but as the king, certainly no one _else_ is going to deal with this. 

 

Besides, it could only be a few people.

 

Sinbad walks to the window, bracing himself against the absolutely appalling cold, scanning the horizon for a familiar figure. Whichever one it is, they’d better have a damned good reason for freezing the crops.

 

It takes a moment, but it's Judal that suddenly appears directly in front of Sinbad, braid swaying as he dangles there upside down, mere inches from his face. "Before you ask," he dully begins, "I didn't _mean_ to do this. It just sort of happened."

 

Ah. Well, that’s certainly the easiest of the four to deal with. Sinbad relaxes, reaching out to toy with that familiar braid. “It’s fine, it’s fine. Come in, we _missed_ you.” _I know I did._

 

"I'm going to bed." 

 

And just like that, Judal flips up and out of sight. Ja'far's eyebrows immediately climb.

 

Sinbad stares after him for a moment, then looks back to the disarray of his generals, and Alibaba’s confused, stubborn face.

 

It’s too early to have a headache.

 

He sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Ja’far, what did you tell me it was called when it snowed a lot in your homeland and no one had to do any work?”

 

Ja'far opens his mouth to protest, but there's nothing for it, when Pisti is already climbing out of the window entirely. "… A snow day," he simply sighs, forgoing his native tongue for the sake of not being teased. "This doesn't even look like it's going to _stick_ , though, I am certain there is still more than enough work that can be done--"

 

"The taverns open in only four hours, let's go, Sharrkan!" Pisti crows, obviously _mystified_ by the stuff.

 

Sinbad catches Pisti and Sharrkan by the collars before they can run off. “The people are going to be _confused_ ,” he says sternly. “Tell them it’s our way of welcoming Judal back, call it a Snow Day, tell them it’s a new holiday we’re thinking up. It’s a fine time to sell hot treats on the streets, throw a blanket over the garden, wear all your clothing at once, that sort of thing. Make them _excited_ , rather than afraid.” He releases them, then slumps down next to Ja’far. “Will it work, do you think? They don’t know snow here.” _They don’t know how awful it is._

 

"Probably," Ja'far sighs, watching as Pisti loops an arm through Spartos's as well, hauling him off in kind. He folds his arms into his robes, looking at Sinbad with scarcely concealed amusement. "Shall I fish out your winter cloak? Ah, _you_ \--" he quickly, sharply redirects, swinging out a hand to smack it down onto Alibaba's trailing ponytail and pin it to the table. The yelp is satisfactory. "You've caused enough trouble today. What do you know about this?"

 

" _Nothing!_ " Alibaba protests, reaching back to tug his hair free with a huff. "I swear, I didn't even know Aladdin was leaving Balbadd, or _why_."

 

Ja'far sighs, looking back to Sinbad with a shrug. "You should probably go and speak to Judal, then. He looked… less than pleased."

 

Sinbad nods gloomily. “I’ll go speak to him,” he agrees. “You can deal with...this,” he adds, pointing to Alibaba with a rather disgusted wave of his hand, shuffling out of the room.

 

A second later, he pokes his head back in. “And yes, my winter cloak would be lovely.”

 

~~

 

Judal _hates this_. 

 

His first and immediate stop is the kitchens, gloomily snatching up a basket of fruit that he nibbles on the entire way to his bedroom. Flopping down into the bed, he turns his face into a pillow, and immediately, _angrily_ realizes that it doesn't smell of Aladdin, and probably hasn't for some time, considering their extended absence. 

 

Eventually, half-way through the fruit, he makes his way to Sinbad's chambers. It's better than nothing, warm and at least smells like a _person_ , and he throws himself down into the mattress, hauling a blanket up and over himself and biting down hard into a peach. 

 

 _Maybe_ , he miserably thinks, _the world is just telling me to hibernate until he gets back_. If all of the snow is any indication, that would ring rather true.

 

Sinbad knows Judal is in his room long before he gets inside. Ice forms around the handle in an intricate little pattern, and the wind coming from under the door is even colder than the one coursing through all of Sindria at the moment. Hopefully Sharrkan and Pisti are jolly enough to inspire the whole country into a fit of snow celebration instead of terror at the unknown.

 

He steels himself--where is Ja'far and that winter cloak, anyway--and opens the door. As expected, Judal is curled up into a ball on his bed, moodily working his way through a peach. Sinbad shuts the door, sitting on the bed, but doesn't make a move to touch Judal. The last time, he'd pulled away (odd for Judal, but it had happened nonetheless). "I take it Aladdin is somewhere else?"

 

"He left." 

 

Judal takes out his frustration on the peach, biting down harder than necessary and angrily sucking up the juice. "He probably won't show up for another five years, knowing him. What if I'm old and _ugly_ by then?" 

 

Really, Sinbad has been expecting this for some time. The boy does things like that, just walks out and in of their lives, oddly happy no matter how disconnected he sometimes seems from the rest of the world. When he was a child, it had been sort of adorable.

 

As an adult, it's more and more ethereal, and it sends a shiver up Sinbad's spine that has nothing to do with the snow.

 

"You'll never be ugly," he reassures the grumpy Magi, wiping up a trail of juice from his chin. "Look at Scheherezade, she hasn't aged a day in two hundred years. To someone like Aladdin, surely that's just like blinking."

 

"It's not like blinking to _me!"_

 

Judal rolls away, shoving his face down into the nearest pillow and yanking the blankets back up around himself. "I begged him to take me with him," he mumbles, huffing out a breath that fogs up quickly in the chill of the room. "He _wouldn't_."

 

Oh.

 

That sounds a lot less like Aladdin had gone on one of his wandering trips, and a lot more like he had...left. 

 

Damn, there's no way to ask, is there?

 

Certainly there's no way to ask without making it worse, without making Judal cry and whine and sulk, so Sinbad doesn't try. He merely offers a shoulder, nudging a bit closer. "I'll keep you company, poor substitute that I am. I have missed you, you know."

 

Judal sniffs, eyes wet as he lifts his head. "I thought you'd be happy, having so much time to spend… with everyone else," he murmurs. 

 

_No one ever wants to spend time with me for very long. Am I really still that horrible?_

 

It's an entirely too pessimistic thought, and he _knows_ it isn't true, _knows it_. For the past two years, he had been all but fastened to Aladdin's hip, and it had been _good_. 

 

That makes it hurt that much more, now that he isn't here. 

 

Still, he doesn't want Sinbad to leave. Sinbad _leaving_ would be that much worse, and he sucks in a steadying breath, willing the veritable blizzard of his rukh to calm and stop chilling the room to an utterly intolerable temperature. 

 

If Sinbad leaves, it's that much _worse_ , having someone's eyes on him from every angle. 

 

Gratefully, Sinbad pulls some of the covers around himself, glad now that he keeps far more blankets than he really needs in the balmy heat of Sindrian springs. "Much better," he sighs. "Though doubtless the people will enjoy their new holiday."

 

He reaches out, stroking down Judal's back gently with one hand. "Just because I like spending time with other people doesn't mean I don't miss you. I've wanted to show you so much of what you've done, of how beautiful Sindria is now. And god, I've missed you in my bed."

 

Especially the last year or so, after Ja'far had seemingly exhausted his temporary urgency, and the frequency of having pale hair spilled across his pillow had faded to merely twice, three times as much as Sinbad had grown used to before their separation.

 

No matter how Sinbad's hands aren't Aladdin's--larger, broader, creased with callouses… they're still nice, and it's still _Sinbad_. There's a _reason_ why he chose this man as his king, and a dozen reasons why he'd never, _ever_ change that. 

 

It calms him, slightly, to remember all of that. Judal's lower lip still juts in out in a deep pout, even as he lets his head tip forward to butt against Sinbad's shoulder. "I've missed you, too," he murmurs, and it isn't a lie. "I just…" 

 

_I'm afraid, I didn't want to come back here like this, I don't want to mess anything  up again._

 

"Whatever it is," Sinbad says, because he'd have to be an idiot not to see that it's something, "it's fine. If you've made someone angry, or done something, or lost faith in me, whatever, we'll make it all right again." 

 

He finds Judal's hand, and squeezes it. "You're my Magi, right? That doesn't change because you've been gone for a year. And Aladdin knows where to find you when he comes to his senses."

 

"… I think I made someone angry."

 

It's easier to talk about it when Sinbad says things like this. He wriggles his way forward, burying his face into Sinbad's shoulder as he exhales, twining their fingers together to squeeze tightly. "But that was two years ago," he mumbles, sounding so very tired and confused about it all. "And I didn't _mean_ to."

 

Ah, good. That's definitely the kind of thing Sinbad can work with, a hell of a lot better than knowing that Judal had actually left because of _him_. "It's not the end of the world," he says, in what he hopes is a reassuring tone. "Who is it? I make a lot of people angry, I'll add another to the list and we can deal with it together."

 

Judal's head shakes slowly as he doesn't bother to lift his head. "I don't think that will work."

 

"No? Must have been someone really powerful, then." Sinbad stretches out, finally starting to warm up a bit. "But I don't know if you've noticed, your chosen king rules the seven seas and a rapidly expanding Empire. Unless it's someone dead, I'm sure I can negotiate with them."

 

Worry still etches its way starkly over Judal's face. "… But it's Yunan."

 

Sinbad swallows hard. “Boy,” he says, trying to keep his tone light, the memory of their first meeting still _entirely_ fresh in his mind, “when you pick enemies, you don’t mess around with the little fish, do you?”

 

"But I didn't _mean_ to!" Judal desperately protests. "Like I said, it was two years ago, when I lent Ja'far my power so he could use Baal. _Baal_ was okay with it, he seemed sort of amused, honestly, so I didn't think Yunan would get so mad, but…" He bites his lip, shaking his head. "He's the reason it failed. We would've been able to keep fighting and kill Kouen, I think, if he hadn't interrupted the flow of my rukh. It's _still_ hard for me to feel Baal properly," he admits. "And he just… won't stop _watching_ me now."

 

Sinbad wraps an arm around Judal’s shoulder, consoling and comforting. “It’s _fine_ ,” he insists, even if the sheer memory of the power Yunan had held back then still seems as remote from someone like him as one of the stars. He’s a different man, now, not that frightened child. “Would you like me to send him an official sanction, telling him to keep his hands and eyes and rukh off my Magi? I’ve done similar things with Scheherezade.”

 

"… I think that will just make things worse." Judal tips his head forward, sighing into Sinbad's shoulder. "And I guess… I can't really blame him, anyway. No matter what Aladdin and I did, my black rukh just… won't go away."

 

Sinbad presses a kiss to Judal’s hair, tightening his arm. “You know, the color of your rukh doesn’t need to define your choices. Sometimes...knowing the darkness is there, inside of you, waiting...it helps you be better. You save that, you _notice_ it, and when the time comes, you let it free, as long as you know how to rein it back in. It’s not easy, but it doesn’t mean you have to roll over and let it determine your choices, either. _I_ don’t.”

 

Sinbad doesn't understand. Judal doesn't expect him to, but… it's still a stark reminder _that he isn't Aladdin._

 

Tears prick into his eyes again, and Judal heaves as even of a breath as he can manage. "Okay." _It's not the same when you're a Magi. You don't know what it's like, having it right there to toy with and tease and watch what it can_ do--

 

Sinbad gives him another one-armed hug, then asks casually, “Did Aladdin mention anything about Alibaba’s plans before he left, speaking of the choices people make?”

 

Judal shakes his head, intensely grateful for the subject change all the same. "No. He didn't say anything about that." He sniffs, lifting a hand to thumb a tear away before it streaks down his face. "Why, did something happen? Balbadd seemed to be doing okay when I left…"

 

Sinbad snorts. “The little fool thinks he can run a country, suddenly. I might add, he didn’t seem at all sure of that the thousands of times Aladdin and his people _and_ I tried to convince him, but now that someone else stepped in and saved it for _him_ all of a sudden he thinks it’s easy.” It’s going to be some kind of a miracle if Ja’far keeps him from punching the ungrateful kid over the head.

 

"Oh." Judal blinks, tilting his head contemplatively. "It's probably because he and that girl are having sex, most kings are dumb when it comes to women."

 

Ah, he’d missed Judal’s jealousy over his women. No, wait, that’s the opposite of true. “I should have known, trying to impress a girl. God, how typical.” He shakes his head, annoyed. “Well, would you like to sleep? Or investigate how the city has decided to spend the first ever snow holiday?”

 

"… Sorry." Judal winces as he looks out the window to see the snow still coming down, harder than ever. "I swear I didn't _mean_ to do that." _I don't mean to do a lot of things as of late. Ugh._ "Is that an offer to take me to eat somewhere? I'm hungry…"

 

“Don’t worry, it’ll be good for the people to experience something like this. Some of them have lived in Sindria for their whole lives, they might never have _heard_ of snow. And besides,” he adds, tugging Judal to the door and _hoping_ Ja’far has his winter cloak handy, “what better way to inform everyone that their beloved Magi is back?”

 

That makes him feel a _bit_ better, and his lips twitch into a slow smile. "Okay. If it messes up anything really bad, you know I'll fix it, anyway." It _does_ feel good to be useful in that sense for a change, and Judal exhales a steadying breath, trying to steel himself. "But first, food, lots of food." 

 

~

 

Everything gets a little more bearable once the barmaid figures out that heating the cider sells it a _lot_ faster. From then on, there’s hot beer, hot cider, hot milk, hot _everything_ they usually drink cold, and that’s interesting enough that Sharrkan ignores the growing conviction that _the cold isn’t really that fun_ for a while.

 

He ignores it fine, drinking hot cider and laughing with friends (also shivering in the unaccustomed cold) until he sees Ja’far, calmly sipping his usual tea, wearing nothing more than usual and looking _totally comfortable._

 

“How,” he asks, only a bit worse for wear, “do you _do_ that? You’re not even sneezing!”

 

Ja'far blinks. "Why would I be?" he mildly replies, though his mind is swiftly brought to how Sinbad had already started sneezing, and it had nothing to do with brushing the dust out of his old furs before wrapping himself up in them as if he were braving the tundra. "I told you, this is nothing. If it actually does stick, it will only be a couple of inches at most, and it'll melt in the next day. In my country, we would end up with a foot of snow in an hour. Hinahoho's is worse." 

 

Sharrkan shudders. “It just...what, lays there? Who makes it into a foot?”

 

The bland stare Ja'far offers him is as chilling as the weather. "Sharrkan, sometimes I wonder how you feed yourself."

 

Ah, Sharrkan recognizes that sort of look. That’s the _oh god I just realized I’m talking to someone from Heliohapt and how much better I am_ look, and on anyone else he’d probably feel inclined to punch the person. With Ja’far, he just shrugs, not really apologetic at all. “I make out okay with all ten fingers and all ten toes. Hey, is it okay if I, uh, ask you a favor?” Damn, probably should have done this yesterday. Or a month ago.

 

"If you don't put some proper clothes on, you'll freeze all of those _off_ ," Ja'far scolds, sighing as he downs another mouthful of hot tea. "And yes, go on, what is it?"

 

Sharrkan avoids countering with the fact that these are his _only_ clothes. That’s not exactly...the kind of argument he wants to get into, probably. “Thanks. And it’s about my--hey, did I ever tell you much about my family? I mean, I know I did, but you have a tendency to tune out when I talk about Heliohapt--not you in particular, most people do--so I’m not sure if you were paying much attention, but did I ever tell you about my uncle’s kid, the prince, the one who went off to be a healer?”

 

Ja'far stares at him for a long moment before simply tugging the keffiyeh off of his own head, removing the metal ring from it, and promptly wrapping it around Sharrkan's neck as a scarf. "Yes, I remember you telling me about him. What about him?" 

 

Sharrkan tries, for all of a few seconds, not to snuggle down into the soft warm cloth. But... _wow_ that feels good, and maybe it’s a bit colder than he’d thought, and huh, he hadn’t even realized his neck could _get_ cold, it never has before. “Hey, thanks, that makes a huge difference. Well, uh, anyway, the thing is, my uncle sent him to Laem a couple years ago, but he didn’t realize they’d made an alliance with Kou, so he’s asked me if I could ask Sin to let the kid come and stay here for a while, you know, heal the sick, do something good for Sindria if he can, that kind of thing. So, uh, I told him I’d ask.” _Like two months ago but that’s really not the issue here._

 

"Oh, I'm sure that will be fine." And here Ja'far thought it would be something _ridiculous_. "I will bring it up to Sin later, if you like. I can't imagine he would be adverse to it… ah, well," Ja'far amends with a grimace. "After the little stunt Alibaba pulled this morning, it might be difficult to get him out of Laem, but otherwise…"

 

“Oh, that won’t be a problem!” Sharrkan says quickly, relieved. “Yeah, he’s not in Laem anymore. But if you’re sure it’ll be fine, that’s _great_ , here, uh, let me introduce you to him! One sec, I’ll go grab him!”

 

Ja'far twitches. He should have known. "Wait just a second," he flatly says, reaching out to snatch Sharrkan back by the wrist. "You brought a _prisoner of war_ into Sindria before bringing this up to Sinbad directly?" It all makes sense now. "Small _wonder_ your _apprentice_ has such similar gall." 

 

Sharrkan shrugs, sheepish. “Well, you _said_ it would be okay, and, I mean, Sin _does_ kind of collect people. And he didn’t want to stay in Heliohapt, and I….forgot. Sorry.”

 

Yes, this is definitely where Alibaba got the idea from. "… _Don't_ forget next time," he grinds out, releasing Sharrkan with a long, drawn out sigh. "And if anything happens, it is _your_ responsibility." Dear god, he can only hope this boy isn't anything like Sharrkan. Ja'far isn't sure he can handle another one.

 

Sharrkan rolls his eyes. “How bad can he be, he’s just a _healer_ ,” he points out. “They’re not like they used to be in my grandfather’s day, they just put bandages on cut fingers and stuff. You’ll like him, he’s boring.”

 

"Him being 'just a healer' is not the problem." It's worthless trying to talk to Sharrkan about politics. "And… excuse me, what does _that_ mean?" 

 

“Uh...that he won’t make as much trouble for you as the rest of us do?” Sharrkan says weakly. “Look, here, he brought a friend, just--” He escapes Ja’far’s glare to flee to the back of the tavern, grabbing the two younger men by the arm and hauling them over. “Ja’far, this is my cousin Sphintus, and his friend Tristan. Guys, this is Ja’far, General of Sindria.”

 

Titus bows low, the kind he’s _practiced_ for meeting important people as Tristan the Wandering Magician rather than his true status. “It’s an honor, milord.”

 

Ja'far takes one look at 'Tristan' and tries not to spit out his tea.

 

For a split second, he thought it _was_ Scheherazade--but no, the boy is taller, the hair is different, and even if his face is identical, the body is still … slightly less feminine. "… An honor indeed," he manages, shaking off the shock of that to look at Sphintus instead. God, but the royal family all do look so _similar_. "It is a pleasure to meet you, Sphintus. I do hope your stay in Sindria will be a pleasant one." 

 

Sphintus bows low, and Ja'far tries to think of a time that Sharrkan ever had such decent manners. "Thank you very much for allowing me into your country. If there is anything I can do while I am here, please, put me to the task."

 

"… You're right, I do like him. Sharrkan, did your family neglect you and your manners deliberately?" 

 

Sharrkan glares a little. No matter how he’d told Sphintus to be on his best behavior, he hadn’t meant that the kid should show him up or anything. “Well, I just...I wasn’t supposed to be _king_ or anything, so…” He rolls his eyes. “I’m gonna go have another hot beer with Pisti.”

 

"More like my uncle gave up on you after awhile," is Sphintus's low mutter. "All _you_ cared about was your sword." 

 

Sharrkan barks out a laugh. “Unlike the son who cared about his _textbooks_ ,” he jeers, poking Sphintus in the side. “What did Uncle say when you told him you wanted to be a magician again? Damn, I can’t remember, it was _hilarious_.”

 

"Better than what he said when _you_ went on and on about traveling the world to be a famous swordsman!" Sphintus snaps back, smacking Sharrkan's hand away. "From what I've heard, all you've been doing is flaying open extremely large fish!"

 

Ja'far should have known. He exhales a long sigh, drinks more tea, and avoids the fireworks with a crook of his finger towards Titus. "How are your wife and child, pray tell?"

 

Titus gulps. He can hear Sphintus going at it with his cousin--just like when they’d visited Heliohapt after all, with Sphintus being defensive and his relatives teasing him mercilessly for having the gall to care about _learning_ \--and keeps his voice low, so as not to attract any unwanted attention. “I’d heard you were quite an astute man,” he says quietly, inclining his head. There’d been no chance of keeping the ruse up around someone who knows his mother, he’d known. “They’re quite well, and my wife sends her regards to your king. You must understand, traveling like this is far safer in the current political climate.” _Also my Lady isn’t best pleased with my...extended absence._

 

"I can assure you that we will be sure to use great discretion." _This_ is useful, far more so than any healer, and it will certainly soothe away any bad mood Sinbad will be inclined to have upon hearing how they've _apparently_ taken in a prisoner of war. Direct access to Scheherazade's empire through her first magician? Very good indeed. "Of course, you, too, are welcome to stay as long as you like. I will have a set of rooms prepared for you and your friend." 

 

Titus relaxes immediately, breaking into a sweet, genuine smile. “Thank you for your courtesy, milord. I truly appreciate it. As Sphintus has offered his services, I so offer my own, should any need arise for them to be of use. I beg of you to consider me an asset, milord.” Odd, to be speaking so deferentially, but he’s practiced with Sphintus on the way from Heliohapt. There hadn’t been much to do, those long hot days on horses, and it had been a way to pass the time.

 

"… Just Ja'far is fine," is the eventual reply, low and amused. "But thank you, I am sure Sinbad will be happy to hear of this as well. Please enjoy yourself why you are here, though, after so much travel." 

 

"Ahh, forget it! I'm not staying here another moment if I have to deal with _him!_ To hell with my father, I'll _swim_ back to Heliohapt!"

 

It's definitely going to be one of those weeks.

 

Titus’s smile falters. “Um, would it be too much to ask for rooms at some sort of distance from my friend’s cousin? He...doesn’t get along _terribly_ well with his family.”

 

Sharrkan, in complete disregard of his cousin’s protests, drags him around the bar. “Pisti, Masrur, look, it’s the cousin I was telling you about! Hey, where’s Yamu, she’ll like this guy.”

 

"I will see what can be done," Ja'far deadpans, and takes another, calming sip of tea. "Sharrkan!" he barks out. "Stop tormenting the boy and show him and his friend properly to the guest quarters in the palace! He's your family, show a bit of pride in showing them around Sindria _respectfully_." 

 

Sharrkan rolls his eyes so hard it’s nearly audible, clapping a forcibly amicable arm around Sphintus’s shoulders. “Yeah yeah, bring your girlfriend. I’ll show you the ocean and the brothels and the really fun parts Ja’far doesn’t like guests to know about.”

 

" _He's_ not my girlfriend," Sphintus hisses out, attempting to wriggle his way free as Kukulcan hisses lowly. "And I don't want you to show me anything! I'll drown you in the damn ocean, you ass!"

 

Sharrkan’s eyebrows shoot up. “That’s a man? Damn fine ass on him!”

 

Sphintus doesn't really think before he has his hands around Sharrkan's throat. Ja'far sighs, and turns a blind eye. 

 

“Was...a...compli...ment…” Sharrkan chokes out, then jams his knee up into his cousin’s gut, grabbing him in a headlock the likes of which would only be seen in a gladiator’s arena in Laem or a family party in Heliohapt.

 

"Who said," Sphintus wheezes, just barely stopping Kukulcan from sinking his fangs into Sharrkan and immediately wishing he hadn't, "you could look at him like that?! I'll _kill you_ \--"

 

Sphintus _had_ warned Titus about Heliohapt family fights, and Sphintus’s mother (bless her adorable soul) had warned him that her son and Sharrkan got on like a cat and an armed mouse, but seeing the sudden striking violence of it, seeing Sharrkan lash out a fist with enough force to send the other man flying back, is just a _bit_ too much for Titus.

 

A flash of light, and he draws his wand, a magic bubble surrounding both men, floating them up and away from each other in a gentle drift.

 

"So you _are_ quite a capable magician," Ja'far says, head tilting to the side. "How… fortunate of Sphintus, to have such a companion."

 

"Ti--Tristan!" Sphintus snaps, _thoroughly_ flustered now and promptly smacking his own staff against the bubble to pop it and land on his feet. He leaves Sharrkan, though, the dumbass, and huffs as he brushes himself off. "You didn't need to interfere, I was _fine_ \--"

 

The tavern door swings open, letting in a brief whirlwind and flurry of snow before banging shut again. "Your great and powerful Magi has returned!" Judal announces, half-buried underneath the heavy fur of Sinbad's cloak from where he presses himself into the man's side. Maintaining a _slightly_ better mood is easy enough upon seeing how Sindria has prospered even in his absence, and the promise of alcohol and food and _Sinbad_ makes it even better. "Ah! You!" he announces abruptly, gaze swinging towards Titus. "What was your name… Tits or something--what are you doing here? And with your poor boyfriend, too." 

 

Titus goes pale. This _isn’t_ part of the plan, Judal is supposed to be in Balbadd, the information had been sound, and oh god that man behind Judal must be, could only be, could be no one other than…

 

Yeah, this disguise is pretty rubbish.

 

“Um,” he says, in a very small voice, trying to trust to Judal’s obviously poor memory and shooting a pleading look at Ja’far, “it’s Tristan, actually, and--”

 

Sharrkan pops the bubble with a slam of his heel, hitting the ground to round on Judal. “What the hell did you say about my cousin, you little bastard?”

 

"Oooh, so he _is_ your cousin, I couldn't remember. You all look the same, anyway," Judal mutters, his gaze flickering back to Titus. "Tristan--no, that definitely wasn't it. How's the old hag, anyway?" 

 

" _Tristan_ ," Ja'far interrupts, attracting Judal's attention immediately with the sharpness of his tone, "is staying here with Sharrkan's cousin, Sphintus. I trust you'll show them a great deal of hospitality, Judal." 

 

Judal squints, put out and annoyed for all of a second before just dropping it. "Whatever." He tilts his head back to look up at Sinbad. "I'm hungry." 

 

Within a second, a table is cleared, and a couple tavern regulars are dumped out of the nicest seats in the establishment, which are promptly cleaned, fluffed, and placed in front of the king and his Magi. Sinbad sits, an arm around Judal, and calls, “The finest meal in the house for the shining star of Sindria!”

 

A cheer goes up, echoing off the tavern walls so much they shake, and Sinbad grins. It does him good to hear the people cheering for Judal, makes him proud, even as he raises an eyebrow at the newcomers. _Oh well, doubtless I’ll hear about it later._

 

One solidly large meal later, and Judal feels less like he wants to kill everyone and a bit more like dozing off into the warmth of Sinbad's chest, effectively folded into the heavy fur of his cloak. No matter the talking and laughter around them, warm beer has done _wonders_ to dull his senses, and for the first time since Aladdin left, he thinks that maybe, _maybe_ he can stand the wait until he returns. 

 

He squirms, settling himself down to straddle one of Sinbad's thighs as his arms wind around his king's neck, behaving himself long enough for Ja'far to lowly explain the 'situation' surrounding Titus--he _knew_ that was that brat's name--and Sphintus to Sinbad. Boring and stupid, all of it. Judal didn't miss hearing about politics, that's for sure. "You're warm," he says on a sigh into Sinbad's ear. Ah, yes. He might be a little drunk, not that it changes much. A hand lazily strokes its way down Sinbad's stomach. "And really comfortable. Hide me in your cloak, I'll rub you off right here." 

 

Sinbad looks down, eyes lidding at the more-than-welcome sight of Judal squirming around under his cloak, writhing like a cat, and his pulse speeds up. One hand comes up to caress dark hair, and he murmurs under his breath, “I don’t know how I made it so long without you.”

 

He flips his cloak over them both, mischief sparkling in his eyes at the sheer _wrongness_ of it all, the fact that they could easily run home instead of being obscene in the middle of a tavern--but what the hell, he’s the king, and Judal his Magi, and what’s the point of having a Magi if they aren’t going to raise shields and make it snow in the desert and give covert handjobs under tavern tables? “Don’t move around too much, let’s not be obvious.”

 

Judal grins, hooking his chin over Sinbad's shoulder with a shuddering little sigh brushing over his neck. "God forbid if we were _obvious_ ," he wickedly purrs, fingers plucking at Sinbad's robes, his palm sliding beneath them to drag over the line of Sinbad's cock. His own thighs squeeze together where he straddles Sinbad's leg, his breath a bit too fast. "I _could_ slide under the table instead. Would you rather shove my face between your legs?" 

 

Sinbad stifles a groan. “You,” he murmurs, shifting a bit in his chair, spreading his knees farther apart to give his Magi _room_ , “are going to get me arrested in my own country.” Not like it’s the first time or anything, but _still_. He has a feeling Ja’far won’t bail him out this time, and Masrur and Sharrkan are already too drunk to be some help to him. 

 

Who cares, life is short. “Go on, then. Show me why I was right to miss you so much.”

 

It only takes but a moment for Judal to slink his way down, the heavy fall of Sinbad's cloak a decent enough cover as he nuzzles up between his king's legs. He paws his way up, mouthing the hardening line of Sinbad's cock beneath fabric before he simply can't _wait_ any more, a needy, ragged little sound escaping through his nose as Judal pulls down cloth and wraps his fingers around him.

 

The first taste of Sinbad on his tongue after so long is enough to make his eyes roll back, and Judal stifles his own groan by letting the head of that thick, heavy cock slide between his lips for a hard, messy suck. He reaches up a hand, grabbing for Sinbad's and guiding it to his hair, _wanting_ the press of it, his demanding _insistence_.

 

“Oh.” Sinbad’s breath is a murmur, low and husky, fingers curling automatically into Judal’s hair at the crown of his head. No one does this like Judal, no one _loves_ it like Judal, and that’s enough to make Sinbad wonder five seconds in if he’s got the kind of self-control he’s going to need to pull this off.

 

His hand tightens, and he guides Judal firmly down, unable to move his hips for fear of being seen, moving Judal’s head instead. “That’s good, good boy, you know how to take care of me.”

 

Judal's eyes flutter, and he _wishes_ Sinbad could see. He knows how good he looks sucking cock, and he'd gladly put on a show to better remind Sinbad why the man certainly _should_ miss him. 

 

Instead, he puts himself to work, groaning low in his throat at the press of Sinbad's hand and yielding to it, working his mouth down every thick inch of his cock and exhaling hot and desperate through his nose as he works his throat to swallow all of him. His jaw aches, the stretch of his lips and the spasm of his throat a welcome struggle, and his nose bumps against the hard, flat plane of Sinbad's belly before his cheeks hollow, drawing himself back with a hard, wet suck, sloppily lapping at the head of his cock when he pulls back far enough.

 

Sinbad can imagine _all_ too well what Judal looks like right now. He’s always had a talent not just for being good in bed, but for looking _sinful_ and yet oddly innocent at the same time, a thorough, wanton enjoyment on a lovely face that just makes desecrating it, forcing it into new heights of pleasure, an absolute joy. 

 

At least Sinbad can imagine it, and _does_ , with every sloppy, needy lick to his cock, every delighted suck, and he yanks Judal down again and again, shoving his cock into the younger man’s mouth, face hot as he looks around, wondering how many of the patrons are sober and observant enough to notice that the king is being sucked off in public by his Magi.

 

The thought _really_ shouldn’t make him so much harder.

 

It's a pity, really, that he can't have Sinbad just hold him down and rut against his face in a situation like this. It makes Judal that much more eager to please, though, that much more _pliant_ when Sinbad's hands yank at his hair to pull him up and down on his cock, and his eyes roll back when he's shoved down entirely, choking on every inch of him as his hands slide up to knead into Sinbad's thighs. 

 

His breath is ragged and hot when he's pulled off again, and Judal strains against the hold for a moment to suck just the head back into his mouth, tongue toying with the tip of it, lapping and tasting and god, it's hard not to moan when Sinbad is leaking all over his tongue. "Too bad you can't come all over my face like this," he breathes. "Or maybe you should, anyway--you'd probably _like_ parading me around like that, all flushed and dripping in your seed."

 

Sinbad has to wonder why he _ever_ thought this was a good idea.

 

Ja’far is probably right, and he thinks far too much with the part of him currently rubbing against Judal’s sensual tongue, dripping steadily as Sinbad’s breath hitches as the constant stream of perversions coming from Judal’s mouth.

 

The idea has _merit_ , when he’s so aroused, but he grabs Judal harder, shoving his head down, a grip like iron as he growls, “Tonight you swallow everything I give you, whore, and beg me for more.” And later, he’ll hold Judal down in the privacy of his room and _really_ mark him, show him who _owns_ him.

 

Judal chokes, swallowing hard, and the whine that manages to escape, muffled and ragged, is proof enough that he _would_ beg for more if he could. _Please please please let me taste you, all of you, I want it_. His moans are muffled as he sucks hard, tongue wriggling with every twitch of Sinbad against his tongue, and god, he's starting to remember very, very clearly some of the things _he's_ missed for the past year.

 

By this point he’s probably obvious, face flushed, eyes half-closed, breathing heavy as his hand moves oh so _obviously_ below that thick fur cloak, but ah, Sinbad is far past the point of caring. He holds Judal down, and _hard_ , muscles straining with the effort of _not_ thrusting up, _not_ making a sound, and he spills hard down Judal’s throat, pulling back just enough for him to taste it. “All of it,” he murmurs, as quietly as he can as his heart races from the danger of it all. “Don’t miss a drop.”

 

 _That's_ an order Judal will always eagerly follow, and _gratefully_. He's shuddering as he swallows it all, sucking and licking at what _does_ manage to try and escape down his chin, and he sinks backwards to really _breathe_ a moment later, panting shallowly he butts his head up against Sinbad's hand. 

 

It takes a second before Judal can think to carefully tuck Sinbad back into his robes, his touch lingering as he slowly slithers his way back up, tentatively poking his head out, face still flushed. "Do you think anyone noticed?" 

 

Sinbad darts a look around, then shrugs. “No one’s being obvious about it if they did, and I can’t imagine it would start any rumor that doesn’t already exist.” He nuzzles into Judal’s hair, pulling him back up to sit on Sinbad’s lap. “The people know well enough to let their king have his fun.”

 

"They better," Judal sighs, burying his face into Sinbad's neck as he winds his arms about his shoulders. "It would almost be more fun if they did notice, don't you think?" he breathes, catching an earring between his teeth to gently tug. "Then they could be jealous."

 

Sinbad sighs, stroking a hand down Judal’s spine. “You’re definitely drawing attention now. Careful, you’ll be exposed to a whole new side of rabid females. Ja’far can warn you about it.”

 

Judal pouts, slumping forward with a grumbling sigh. "They can just join in. That's what Aladdin and I did." 

 

Sinbad’s eyes flash. “Don’t tease me with something like that unless you mean it.” Judal had always been less inclined to such amusements than himself, though certainly more than _Ja’far_ who, as far as Sinbad knows, has never taken a woman to bed in his life.

 

"I mean it well enough, but… right now, I don't really feel like sharing." Judal grins, giving Sinbad's hair a light tug. "Should I make it snow tomorrow, too, so I can keep you all day?"

 

Sinbad turns his head, catching Judal’s hand to nibble on his fingers. “How about,” he suggests, “you make the weather nice tomorrow so all the crops don’t freeze, and I take the day off anyway?”

 

"Hmm. Deal. Though I sort of like it when you're pathetically shivering," Judal muses, fingers slowly curling. 

 

Sinbad narrows his eyes. “I’m not _pathetic_...I just don’t like the cold,” he grumbles. “I live in the south for a _reason_.” He nips at a fingertip, then pulls Judal back deeper onto his lap, hooking his chin over Judal’s shoulder. “Look how happy they are,” he murmurs. “They’d all be Kou slaves if not for you.”

 

"It looked pretty pathetic to me." Nevertheless, he wriggles his way back, settling against Sinbad's chest with a sigh. "More like _you_ , you mean. I messed up."

 

“Messed up? By keeping Kouen occupied until I could come home? By raising enough of the rukh to feed our rapidly expanding population, or raising the _island_ to give us space to do so?” He presses a kiss to Judal’s ear. “Hardly.”

 

"… I left in the first place and killed his brothers and ruined your plans." Judal's head tips to the side, knocking lightly against Sinbad's. "I messed up."

 

Sinbad shrugs. “I mess up all the time. Sometimes it works better than what I meant to do. Let it _go_ , the people are happy, you should be too.”

 

Judal opens his mouth to argue again before simply shutting it, grumbling something about stupid kings underneath his breath, and yanking Sinbad's cloak tighter around himself. "I'm happy enough."

 

 _As happy as you can be without Aladdin, you mean_ , Sinbad thinks, and can’t help but feel a bit of pity. He’d seen them together, felt the magic they created; it must be a lonely life, being a Magi, knowing that there are only three others in the world that understand and actually finding peace with one of them. He holds Judal more tightly, even as the warmth starts to get a bit intolerable. “Good. Let me make you happier still. In the meantime, what can you tell me about our visitors over there?” he asks, nodding at Sharrkan and the newcomer in some sort of drinking contest.

 

Relaxing, Judal's head tilts as he glances over to the two in question. "Ah, poster child for poverty and his woman. I think his name is Sphintus or something… anyway, he's a healer of some sort, I guess he's decent enough, and the blond… Scheherazade's brat, and her First Magician. I'm pretty sure he thinks women are monsters from the deep."

 

Sinbad’s eyes sharpen. Now that he’s looking, he can see the uncanny resemblance; slightly more masculine, taller, and the hair is a bit different, but by god they’re almost eerily alike. Even the earring is the same--hell, even the _posture_ is the same. “So, Scheherezade’s little prize wandered into Sindria, hmm? Don’t torment him, I want to keep him for a while.”

 

"I'll be good, he owes me, anyway," Judal sighs, reclining back with his head lolling over Sinbad's shoulder. "I _could_ be a jerk and tweak the shields a bit so he can't leave even if he wanted to for awhile…"

 

Sinbad pauses for a moment, thinking. “If you do and he tries to leave, will he be able to tell that they’re keyed to him specifically? I don’t want to start a war with Laem before I have to.”

 

Judal snorts. " _Please_. As if I'm that sloppy. He's a good magician, but he isn't a Magi."

 

“Do it. That’ll at least keep him from sneaking out unexpectedly. How powerful is he, by the way? You rarely give out praise to magicians.”

 

"He's good," Judal begrudgingly allows. "Another water magician. Aladdin told me stories about his spars with him, and he's been trained by a Magi his whole life, so… he knows what he is doing. Also, he's got a hell of a quick fuse, especially when it comes to his pet."

 

“His pet? The snake?”

 

"More like the one from Heliohapt wearing the snake." 

 

Sinbad pauses, drawing back and running his fingers contemplatively through Judal’s hair. “Are you saying,” he asks, slowly, “that the royal prince of Heliohapt and the first magician of Laem have not only walked into Sindria with plans to stay, they’re illicit lovers?” It’s his birthday, it _must_ be.

 

"I _meant it_ when I said that the blond was Heliohapt's _woman_ ," Judal snickers, nuzzling his head back into Sinbad's touch. "There's a reason why _I_ had to help get Kougyoku pregnant." 

 

 _Oh, Scheherezade, you made such a foolish mistake by collaborating with Alibaba and then allowing this boy into my country._ “Keep them both here. Be on your best behavior, at least for now. How quick a fuse?”

 

"Threaten his boytoy, draws his wand. Insult him well enough, draws his wand. He's a quick shot, too," Judal sighs, rolling his eyes. "You could take him easily enough, don't worry. But he's still annoying."

 

Sinbad rolls his eyes. “Of _course_ I could take him, I haven’t been worried about a magician’s skills against my own since I was a teenager. What do you know about Scheherezade and Kougyoku’s feelings towards him?”

 

"Kougyoku thinks he's cute and likes when he buys her things. I'm fairly certain he does her hair and that's the extent of that," Judal says with a roll of his eyes. "Scheherazade… I think she's _possessive_ of him. That's about it." He pauses, turning his head to look at Sinbad with a frown. "He's not like Yamuraiha, if that's what you're thinking. Think me, even without infinite magoi." 

 

That gives Sinbad a moment of pause. He cocks his head, frowning. “Are you saying he’s better than Yamu?” Damn Scheherezade anyway. Are Magi even allowed to breed?

 

Judal nods. "Yes. He aims to kill, every single time. Pretty sure he wanted to kill me with a teapot once."

 

Sinbad’s eyes narrow. “Why exactly haven’t you been breeding me unstoppable killing magicians? Is this a skill all Magi have, because I know for a fact Sindria has plenty of women who don’t mind giving birth to bastards.”

 

"… Because it's a really, really stupid idea and I've already been yelled at _once_ by Yunan for apparently messing with Solomon's laws," Judal huffs. "Magic isn't really something that's passed on, necessarily. Kouen's daughter is a Goi brat, remember; I think Magi just have a higher chance of passing it on or something. Scheherabitch got lucky."

 

“Ah, well,” Sinbad sighs, abandoning the idea with a wave of his hand. “Can’t blame me for trying. Besides, it will probably be more fun to play with this one rather than wait many years to make our own, hmm?”

 

"… Why do you want to play with him so badly?" Judal presses. "Did something happen with Laem? You're not starting war if Kougyoku is there, I want her."

 

“I’m not starting anything, I just don’t trust Scheherezade when she makes a stupid move. It’s not like her,” Sinbad muses. What could have _possessed_ the woman? Alibaba can’t be trusted to govern a country, he’s given one away more times than a hermit crab abandons its shell.

 

"Mmn, well," Judal sighs, stretching sideways over Sinbad's lap, "if you keep that one, she'll be a little more malleable. She's kind of a control freak about what he does. In fact, I'm amazed she allowed him to come here _at all_ , if you catch my drift."

 

“That’s two stupid moves. Hmm.” Sinbad pushes the information to the back of his mind, letting it simmer and resolve while he thinks about other things. Hopefully by the time he gets a chance to talk about it with Ja’far, it will have changed into something clear and brilliant. “Well, it will be what it will be. Have you had enough of tavern life for the evening? I think they’re having a snowman-building competition with the children in the street.”

 

Judal makes a face. "Does that mean I have to go and look at them or something? Because I'd rather go back and warm your bed."

 

“Mm, we _should_ stop off and make an appearance, but…” He grins, and tweaks Judal’s nose. “You go get the bed warmed up. I’ll put in the obligatory appearances for the both of us.”

 

"Let Ja'far judge in my absence, he _likes_ kids," Judal sighs, nipping lightly at Sinbad's fingers before sliding out of his lap in an easy bounce. "But don't take too long. I'll be waiting for you, my king."

 

Sinbad’s eyes follow Judal out the door--many eyes do, but Sinbad revels in knowing he’s the only one with that lovely creature in his bed tonight. He casts a look around, entirely unsurprised to find Ja’far in a corner, and sidles into the chair. “Busy day.”

 

"Understatement," is the dry retort, and Ja'far takes a sip of probably his tenth cup of hot tea, this time laced with just a bit of rum. "Did Judal extrapolate enough on our guests for you, or shall I fill in a few blanks from what I have been able to observe?" 

 

“Feel free. There are many blank spots in my knowledge right now, and I’d like them filled in.” It’s difficult not to be obvious about watching the pair--good lord, did they really think they were keeping concealed? How did Scheherezade manage to keep the boy alive, as stringent as Laem is about such things?

 

"From what I can gather, they've already been to Heliohapt and back--the prince is actually somewhat renowned there nowadays, a feat for their royal family, all things considered," Ja'far offers with a shake of his head. "Titus, on the other hand… honestly, I don't think he is here to impose any sort of threat. The moment I extended a bit of kindness towards him, he all but hid behind me. I don't think," he wryly adds, "Scheherazade _quite_ knows that he's here."

 

Sinbad nods slowly. “Judal wasn’t stingy with praise about the boy’s abilities. Set up some kind of test, whether in training or in earnest. I want to see for myself.”

 

Ja'far nods. "Very well. Aladdin mentioned him to me before, I believe. I doubt Judal was exaggerating, from the things he told me."

 

“Be careful, I heard he has something of a short fuse and enjoys the kill. What about the other, the Healer? Think he’s been trained in the best of family traditions?”

 

"To retell Aladdin's stories again--I _believe_ he was sent away from Heliohapt to avoid the tradition of medical magicians being used as assassins. Considering the uneasy politics there, however… I am not sure we should bet on that." Ja'far takes another sip of tea. "Honestly, though, I feel no malice from him or Scheherazade's magician. And Sharrkan, in spite of all things, does tend to be a good judge of character. The most he shouts at his cousin about is taking to his books too often." His eyes slide sideways. "How long are you thinking of entertaining them?"

 

Sinbad raises an eyebrow. “Really, Ja’far, when have you known me to throw an advantage that hurls itself into my lap?” A rather apt metaphor on all sides, he feels, and stretches slowly. “If two crown princes from unstable nations wish to be my guests, well, it would be churlish of me to deny them, wouldn’t it?”

 

A thought occurs to him. “Make the magician welcome. He must feel very...unwelcome in Laem. You know what I mean.”

 

"You want me to mother him." It's a rather put out deadpan. "And tell him his life choices are acceptable, and that Sindria will always welcome him with open arms. Anything else?"

 

“If I _said_ you know what I mean,” Sinbad says patiently, “that rather implies that it’s obvious enough not to be said aloud.” He claps Ja’far on the shoulder, standing. “I’ll leave him to you, then.”

 

"… Of course." Ja'far swats his hand away with a snort. "I am always happy to serve, Your Majesty. Is there anything else?"

 

Sinbad pauses. “There’s a snowman competition that needs a judge. Probably a few of them, if I know Sindrian children.”

 

Ja'far heaves a sigh at that, setting down his teacup. "Then I suppose I know what I am doing before I retire."

 

“Don’t look at me like that, you’re happiest when you’re busy.” With a last, affectionate pat on the cheek, Sinbad waves a fond farewell to the tavern, drinking in salutes to his health, before hurrying back to his palace and waiting bedmate.

 

Judal leaves his jewelry on. 

 

That's about it.

 

He takes care to draw the windows closed once he steps inside, a flick of a flame to candle lighting up the dim room and an absent blaze of heat magic taking off the chill before he wriggles from his clothes and collapses into the bed. Ah, his hair, right. He plucks at the tie, dragging his fingers through the mass of it to mostly loosen it as he twists onto his side. How long has it been since he was _properly_ in Sinbad's bed? All the better to do it right, and enjoy himself. 

 

Fur cloak or no fur cloak, Sinbad is chilled to the bone by the time he gets back to the palace, the thought of a warm body curled around him more enticing even than usual. He hurries through the drafty corridors, breathing a sigh of relief when his room is _warm_ , then sucking that breath in at the sight.

 

Slowly, he lets the cloak fall to the floor, advancing on the bed one slow step at a time. “Tell me,” he murmurs, loosening his other clothes, eyes tracking down that familiar sinuous body, “did you miss my bed?”

 

Judal's lips twitch up into a slow smirk, and he pushes himself up onto his hands, stretching one out once Sinbad is near enough to be grabbed. "Only a little," is his low tease. "It's been so _long_. Maybe you should remind me why I ever shared it in the first place, hmm?"

 

Judal, Sinbad remembers fondly, likes it when he’s a bit rough.

 

He lets Judal pull him down, then grabs his wrists, holding them above his head in a hard grip, leaning down to give his lips the softest brush of his own before fixing them to his neck. Not _too_ rough, he reminds himself. That was part of why Judal had _left_ , most likely. “I think you remember why.” Holding his wrists with one hand, Sinbad trails a hand down, tweaking a nipple. “I want you to put them back in.”

 

Immediately, Judal's breath hitches, his muscles bunching and chest heaving just with the very idea. "I… I don't really have them _with me_." A little shudder follows his next thought, and his hips jut up, rubbing his suddenly very, very hard cock against Sinbad's thigh. "And I think… they closed back up, awhile ago." 

 

Sinbad looks sternly down at him, the picture of kingly disapproval, even as his eyes burn dark. “Well, then. I think we both know what we’ll have to do.” He drags a leg up between Judal’s, pressing hard down against the younger man’s dripping cock. “Don’t we?”

 

 _God_ , he very much remembers why he spent as much time as possible in Sinbad's bed.

 

There really is something _about_ being ordered around, shoved down and _held down_ by this man, and Judal's groans are already breathy little things as he lurches up, wriggling against the friction Sinbad's leg provides. "If it would make you happy," he pants out, twisting beneath the hold on his arms, "then please--"

 

“If you’re going to go around draped in jewelry and finery,” Sinbad insists, giving a slow rub, then a long tug to the nipple in question, “you should at least be attired to my tastes. Don’t you think? My good, _obedient_ Magi,” he breathes, rubbing down hard even as he pinches.

 

Judal _moans_ , arching his back with an eager squirm, whining with every pinch and tug that goes straight to his cock. It's easy to remember what it would feel like with the piercings there--that much easier for Sinbad to hook a finger into them and slowly pull until Judal could do nothing but _writhe_ \--and oh, how he regrets ever taking them out. 

 

"Whatever…. whatever my king wants," he huffs out, face flushing hot as already, the slightest grind of his cock upward is nearly too much. Coming just from Sinbad's fingers on his nipples-- _that_ would be a new one. "B-bite," Judal lowly whimpers. "Please." 

 

Maybe Sinbad is the obedient one after all.

 

He bends, taking the sore red nipple in his teeth and nibbling, fingers traveling to pinch the other one, tugging a bit harder, knowing Judal _loves_ it. “Would you come,” he asks breathlessly, pinching _too hard_ , rubbing his thumb down, “on my leg like a dog, just from being played with like this? What a _slut_ that would make you, my pretty Magi.”

 

He leans down hard, dragging his thigh over Judal’s cock, pressing and rubbing even as he bites. “Come on, be a good girl for me,” he murmurs.

 

Oh, god.

 

That's not even fair. It's just not _fair_ the way his mind effectively clicks off with those words, and it was already well on its way, with every tug and bite that made him squirm and _sob_. Judal can only manage a stuttering, ragged gasp as he comes _hard_ , his legs splaying and toes curling into the bed as he spills against Sinbad's thigh, grinding and rolling his hips with sharp, ragged little breaths escaping his lungs. 

 

"Just… j-just a slut for you, no one else," Judal whines, eyes rolling into the back of his head as just _saying it_ makes his cock twitch again far, _far_ too soon. "I… let me be good for you, I promise I will, _please_ , Daddy--" 

 

Sinbad raises his eyebrows, amused, aroused, _intrigued_ all at once. “Oh,” he says softly, sliding his hand down to drag through the sticky mess. That’s a button he hadn’t known Judal had. “How am I only discovering this now? No matter.”

 

He flips Judal over onto his belly, both hands coming up to spread his ass, squeezing and kneading. “You’ve put on some meat back here, good. Spread your legs, sweetheart,” he says, talking like he does to the pretty girls who flock around him, and Judal will _know_ that. “Let me see what you’re saving for me.”

 

Judal could _cry_ from how fast his body lights up with arousal again, and he thinks he might be, from how wet the sheets suddenly are beneath his face. He groans, burying his face into them all the same, skin burning as he shakily shoves himself up onto his knees, obediently spreading his legs wider. "Please." It's something akin to a mewl, breaking and hitching as he shivers. "Please, _fuck me._ "

 

"Now, now," Sinbad chides, slicking his hand from a pot by the bed, sliding a thumb over Judal's hole. "I'm going to think you're not a very good girl, begging to be fucked like that."

 

This makes him far hotter than it should, cock aching as he presses it against the back of a smooth thigh. "You make me want to teach you a lesson, pretty thing."

 

Judal _writhes_ , huffing out a too-hot breath as his hips twist backwards, trying his best to urge Sinbad to do _more_. "I'll be good for you," he pleads, his hands kneading into the sheets as he twists his head around to look over his shoulder. "Really good, j-just put it _in--"_

 

Sinbad moves, pressing his cock up into the cleft of Judal's ass, hands digging into the cheeks, kneading, squeezing. "There's a good girl. Now..." 

 

He leans down, nipping at Judal's earlobe, and rasps, "Call me what you did before. Do that, ask nicely, and I'll give you what you want."

 

_Oh._

 

God, he likes Sinbad's hands on him like this. He hadn't expected the man to appreciate all the sweets Aladdin had stuffed down his throat over the past year, how it made him just a _little_ bit softer around the edges, less ribby and far less bony. It seems to be the opposite after all, with Sinbad's hands on him even more than usual. Judal shudders, rocking backwards with an arch of his back, sliding his ass back against Sinbad's cock, biting his lip at the heavy, hard pulse of it, the way it presses against him, so thick that he _knows_ he'll be squirming with every inch that stuffs him so, so full. 

 

He _wants it._

 

" _Please_ , Daddy." His face burns, and Judal's breath hiccups as he pushes his face down into the sheets, whimpering. "P…please… I'm being a good girl, aren't I? So put it in…"

 

Sinbad bites his lip. Hearing things like that, it's hard to make sure he'll last long enough to even get inside.

 

"A very good girl," he says soothingly. He grips his cock with one hand, guiding it down, just enough to press against that sweet little hole then push slowly inside. "Hmm...I think it's...been a while...since you took someone as big as me," he breathes, swallowing hard as Judal clenches down around him. His hands come up to Judal's waist, gripping the softness there, filling his hands as he pulls the younger man slowly, inexorably back. "I know you're eager for it, though, aren't you, sweetheart?"

 

Judal can't breathe. 

 

There's no helping it, with every slick inch that sinks into him, and he _moans_ , low and breathy, his body content to twitch and squirm and rock back against Sinbad's cock. _No one_ fills him up quite like Sinbad does, so long and thick that he's never quite sure that he can take all of it, not until Sinbad is buried entirely inside of him and he is left whining and panting for more. 

 

Now is no different. His body spasms, muscles drawn tight no matter how he tries for a few deep, heaving breaths, and Judal sinks into the bed with something like a sob, his legs wobbling as he tries to spread them further to somehow better _take him._ "Need it," he groans, twisting the sheets beneath his fingers until he's white-knuckled. "N-need all of you inside of me, fucking me hard, no one fucks me like you do, Daddy--"

 

Sinbad's hand slides underneath, sliding up a toned abdomen, up to pinch and tease at his nipples again no matter how they must already be sore. "Don't worry, you'll have it. All you can handle and more."

 

He pinches, and nips at Judal's neck, rolling his hips forward for a long, thorough stroke, filling him up, and god, it is a bit of an effort to get it all inside. "Relax, darling, you're so tight I can hardly get my cock in you, and I know how much a good girl like you wants all of her Daddy's cock."

 

How long has it been since he's been wound _this_ tight? Judal simply moans, a long, shuddery thing as he tries to _breathe_ , tries to relax to better let Sinbad _fuck him_. It's hard when everything aches and quivers and god, Sinbad's fingers on his nipples again just make him thrash, nuzzling his face down into the sheets as he humps back against the older man's cock with a broken, breathy sound as he really _feels_ just how stuffed full he is. "Love it when you call me things like that," he admits with a little whimper. "Please, just…"

 

"I can tell."

 

Sinbad's mouth is dry, and he sucks hard at Judal's neck, digging his knees in to the bed to find a hard, slow rhythm, each long thrust slapping their hips together. "You like it when I tell you you're my good little girl, hmm? Pretty thing, my concubine, I'll keep you naked and on your knees all day," he groans, and gives a last hard pinch to Judal's nipples before sliding his hands down around his waist.

 

"I can feel my cock in here," he breathes. "You take it so perfectly, like that's all a pretty girl like you is made to do."

 

He's not going to last much longer at this rate, and as riled as he is, that's probably a mercy.

 

Judal swallows hard, gulping air in fast and desperate as those words twist through him like wildfire. Every thrust is _maddening_ \--so long and so deep that his mouth falls open, and he whines, wriggling back until he _can't_ anymore, until Sinbad slides so deeply into him each time that he feels like his knees will buckle.

 

He's _certain_ they will, at this rate. Every squeeze of Sinbad's hands makes his eyes roll to the back of his head, every little praise makes his breath come that much faster, and his own cock is so hard again that just the _idea_ of being shoved to his knees, collared like some pretty pet and shoved and flipped around to be used as Sinbad sees fit all day--

 

"Fill me up," Judal begs, and he groans, lurching backward. "Fill your pretty girl up, Daddy, she's been so good, taking your big cock--"

 

"She certainly has."

 

God, Sinbad never gets off this hard to real women, even when they put the coquettish voice on and play coy and bounce around like giggling girls, though that certainly comes close. There's something about this, about Judal in particular, that makes him lurch forward, teeth sinking into Judal's neck and shoulder, groaning loud as he comes hard, hips slapping in deep and staying there, buried as deep as he can get. "You like this," he pants, eyes squeezed shut as the waves of pleasure rock him to the core. "You like it when I fill you up, don't you, love?"

 

It probably shouldn't get him off quite so hard, thinking of Judal as a woman, filled to bursting with his seed and squirming for more.

 

Judal _sobs,_ writhing and twitching around Sinbad's cock, that sudden slick, messy _fullness_ far, far too much, and there's nothing helping the spasms that go through his own body shortly after as he spills again without another touch to his cock. "Yes," he manages to gasp out, eyes fluttering as he rocks back with a mindless, _useless_ little moan. "Love it, want you in me like this, all the time--"

 

“You,” Sinbad breathes, rubbing a hand slowly over Judal’s belly, “couldn’t take me all the time. You’d be _sore_ , used up, tired and begging me to stop because it’s _too much_ , isn’t that right?”

 

God, he just wants to _melt_. Judal sags down, whimpering, eyes fluttering as his muscles twitch just from those few words, his stomach flexing beneath Sinbad's hand. "N…no… I could take it--if that's what you wanted me to do, I'd… I'd definitely be good and do it."

 

Sinbad sighs out a long breath, pressing a kiss to Judal’s shoulder before slowly pulling out. “I might just test you on that later,” he warns. “Make sure you mean it.” It might not even be _too much_ later, not with the way Judal looks leaking white fluid, clenching and sore, and Sinbad can’t help but drag a thumb against his twitching hole. “What a messy girl.”

 

And that would definitely be his legs buckling. " _You_ made me this way," Judal whines, shuddering as he sinks down completely into the bed, burying his face into a pillow. " _God_. Call me things like that _all_ the time."

 

Sinbad grins, stretching out on the bed. “You should have told me years ago. Any other fetishes you’ve been hiding away that your king can indulge you in?” _I doubt you tell Aladdin when you want to be bruised up and called a filthy whore. No, he’s too_ nice _for that kind of thing._

 

"When I can think again," Judal dimly manages, "I'm sure I can remember some things." Slowly, he rolls to the side, burying his face into Sinbad's shoulder. "I don't even really care, I just like it when you're _in me_." 

 

Sinbad combs his fingers gently through the unbound waves of Judal’s hair, smiling at the way it manages to be coarse and silky at the same time, so very familiar. “I’ve been in you a thousand times. You never came like _that_ before.”

 

"Doesn't mean it still wasn't _really good_ all those other times," Judal sighs, rubbing his cheek against Sinbad as he drapes an arm over his chest. "I just really like it when you shove me around and call me names. It's not like I'm gonna break, and I _like_ acting like a whore for you."

 

That draws a laugh from Sinbad. “You surely do. I think,” he adds, walking his fingers down Judal’s spine, “it’s because you know just how precious to me you are. It’s fun to play at being a pauper if you can wake up in a prince’s bed.”

 

Those words bring a slow flush to his cheeks, and Judal wriggles himself closer, throwing a leg over Sinbad's hips for good measure. "I liked acting like that even before I was certain you'd keep me, though," he murmurs. "It's fun."

 

Sinbad has sort of forgotten how much fun it can _be_ , just having someone uninhibited and wild in his bed, riding him desperately. “Well, I hope you don’t tire of me too soon. No matter what awful lies you hear, I feel as young and healthy as I ever have, thanks to you.”

 

"You don't look like you've aged a day," Judal agrees, and he promptly rolls over to flop himself down onto Sinbad's chest. "Perks of being a Magi's chosen, hmm?"

 

“One of many,” Sinbad assures him. He smiles up at Judal’s familiar, playful face, tugging gently on a curl of hair. “In fact, the vast majority of my life with you by my side has been nothing _but_ perks.”

 

Judal snorts at that, even as he turns his head aside to gently nip at Sinbad's hand. "Don't lie. I know I was a pain in the ass for a really long time."

 

“Since you chose me,” Sinbad amends. “Before that you were hardly your own man. I don’t hold it against you, you know.”

 

"Mm." He drops his head down, resting his chin atop Sinbad's chest. "I know. It's probably bad, isn't it, that I don't feel a lot of remorse about all of that. Honestly, I just don't remember it all that well--it feels more like some dream than anything that actually happened."

 

“Feeling bad about it wouldn’t help anyone,” Sinbad points out. “Forget it. This is who you are now, and that’s what’s important.” He tightens an arm around Judal, relaxing back. “I have a feeling tomorrow is going to be a big day. We should probably _try_ and sleep.”

 

"You _said_ you'd take tomorrow off," Judal quickly complains, wriggling his way against Sinbad with a huff. "I'll make it snow again if you don't."

 

“It’s not a _plan_ or anything. Just...don’t you feel it?” Sinbad shivers, and it has nothing to do with the cold. “It’s in the air.”

 

"… The only thing I feel right now are your nice muscles."

 

Sinbad snorts. “Those, I can at least promise, will still be there when you wake.”


	2. Chapter 2

 

The next morning, the snow is already completely gone, and Ja'far can only mourn its loss. 

 

Forcing everyone to go back to work is a nearly impossible thing--Sinbad, of course, doesn't make an appearance at all, and Ja'far bids a bitter farewell to the days minus Judal, when he could actually rouse Sinbad out of bed before noon due to the man simply being _bored_. 

 

The weather is at least decently mild, with reports showing that the crops were relatively undamaged, and by the mid-afternoon, Ja'far is already fully willing to be _done_ with the day, what with Sharrkan skipping out of a meeting, Pisti whining, Masrur dozing off--the list goes on.

 

On top of this, the sight of Titus lingering about one of the courtyards, looking decidedly _bored_ , lends a dozen opportunities-- _test him, to see his abilities_ , Sinbad had said--and none of which Ja'far particularly has time for, when juggling half a dozen scrolls and wanting to punt Sinbad into the damned ocean for not doing a lick of his work the day prior. 

 

"Did your friend abandon you?" Ja'far can't help but call over nonetheless. Sharrkan had something about family traditions--Ja'far knows better than to ask at this point, when it comes to Heliohapt. He pities the man's cousin all the same.

 

Titus starts, looking up a bit guiltily. “Sorry, am I not allowed to be here?” he asks uncertainly. “Sharrkan said I could go wherever, but I didn’t exactly...have a chance to ask anyone more credible.”

 

Back home, it would have been ridiculous, to assume that a guest could go wherever they fancied. Back home, _he_ wouldn’t have been allowed to go where he fancied, and he’d certainly have been right to fear meeting the Empress’s right hand.

 

"Oh, no, you're fine--you just looked bored," Ja'far answers with a tilt of his head. "Have you eaten? I know it's past lunch, but the kitchens are always quite well-stocked these days." 

 

Titus blinks. “I...I mean I did eat, thank you, there was nothing wrong with the meal, it was quite delicious.” He smiles, a little shyly. “I find Sindrian food quite to my liking, I must say.”

 

"Ah, good, I was worried Sharrkan had dragged Sphintus off before properly escorting the two of you," Ja'far sighs, switching his hold on the scrolls to the other arm. "Walk with me?" he lightly suggests. "Unless you'd prefer to keep waiting here. You can tell me how Heliohapt was, it's been a very long time since I have been."

 

Titus falls eagerly into step, eyes swiveling this way and that, taking in every detail he can. “Heliohapt was marvelous. Barbarous, certainly, and the poverty is just _striking_ in some parts--oh, but that isn’t to say it’s not a lovely country,” he hastens to explain. “The desert mountains have the most exceptional sunrises, and some of the Games they throw rival the arenas in Laem, or so I’ve heard.”

 

"Have you done much traveling, outside of Laem?" Ja'far can guess the answer. Nevertheless… "Other than leaving for school, of course. Aladdin told me much about you, you know." 

 

“Ah….no. My Lady doesn’t...really like it when I travel.” That’s something of an understatement, and Titus changes the subject quickly. “How is Aladdin? I haven’t seen him for a pair of years, and only then briefly. Has he been back here? He and Judal were a bit, ah, _close_ the last time, and I saw _him_ last night.”

 

"He was here for a good while two years ago, but he has been in Balbadd for the past year…" The older man trails off wryly. "It would probably be best not to bring him up around Judal," Ja'far adds, and makes his way up the wide stairs to the parliamentary archives, a nod spared to a number of other officials as they pass, undoubtedly leaving for the day. "Judal has been rather close-mouthed about it, but I think they had something of a lover's spat. Ah, would you get the door, please?" 

 

Titus stumbles on the top shelf, a bit thrown by the _casual_ way the man had slipped that into conversation. He catches himself, shutting the door quickly behind him, trying not to look too agog. Quietly, he says, “The last time I talked to Judal, he told me Sindria wasn’t fond of that sort of thing.”

 

"Sindria certainly _favors_ a couple that will actually produce a child, but what one does in one's spare time is really no one's business, and we certainly have no sanctions on it." Ja'far tries not to think too hard on how Titus looks half-terrified to even bring it up. Poor thing. He briskly steps down the hall to his office, nudging the door open with his foot. "You certainly won't get beaten on the streets for it, either. We have always tried to make Sindria an accepting place." 

 

“Not me,” Titus says hurriedly, the old, ingrained fear coming out a bit. _Calm down, it was just a figure of speech, he doesn’t mean me._ “Just saying. Judal said everyone called him a whore.” _It was why I almost didn’t come here. It sounded too much like home, except at home my status protects me at least a little._

 

Ja'far's eyes roll. " _Judal_ calls himself a whore," he bluntly answers, stepping inside and dumping the armful of scrolls onto his desk with a grateful sigh. "And he certainly garners a lot of attention, draping himself over Sinbad at every occasion. I can assure you, he's affectionately _teased_ for it more than anything, and those using it as an insult are more than likely jealous admirers, I've found."

 

A bit of that paranoia lessens. If Sinbad’s _advisor_ can speak about it so calmly, so publicly, maybe it _is_ better than he’d thought. _Still, better change the subject so he doesn’t think it’s something I actually care about personally._ “What, ah, do Sindrians do for fun?” he asks, looking around the sparse office room. “There were certainly a lot of people out having fun last night, but I was given to understand that was a holiday?”

 

"Of sorts…" Ja'far finishes his sorting, laying out a number of things to do _tomorrow--_ best to plan ahead, especially when he fully intends on making Sinbad actually work as well. "Our marketplaces and bazaar are always popular, and there's almost always some sort of event or party going on down there. We have a number of festivals as well, especially in the summer, when the southern sea creatures are particularly active." He smiles wryly. "The taverns are usually like that at night, though, especially courtesy of a number of the generals. Your friend's cousin is a frequent visitor, as is our king." 

 

Titus’s brows draw together, and he tries to remember what activities had been held. “But what do the people actually _do_? Everyone just seemed to be getting drunk and talking loudly, they weren’t watching an activity or playing a game or anything. Unless I missed it?”

 

"… Ironically," Ja'far drawls, "I think it is oft as pointless as you are inferring. But, that is what they enjoy--a chance to simply talk and drink and act like idiots." 

 

Titus blinks. “Oh. That’s...rather unusual in Laem. Most people stick to the arenas or the bathhouses, I understand.” Never mind that there could be a whole tavern city and he probably wouldn’t know about it, as long as the servants didn’t gossip about it in front of him.

 

Ja'far shrugs lightly. "As I mentioned, occasionally there are full scale events that bring out a good deal of the people… the Mahrajan harvest festival, for instance. Tourists come for that one, even. Nothing like your country's arenas, though, I'm sure." 

 

“Probably not,” Titus agrees. “But...the people seem very happy. I met a woman last night who herds sheep, like the real ones that say ‘baa, baa,’ and she says things have never been better here.”

 

"… That's true," Ja'far manages, finding it increasingly difficult not to just sit the boy down and make him tea and keep him shut away from whatever Sharrkan or _anyone_ might do to him. He makes a note not to let him _alone_ on the streets at night, no matter how safe. "Ahh… how long were you planning on staying within Sindria?" he quickly veers, moving to the shelves on the other side of the room and stretching up on tiptoe to set a few scrolls in place. "If it's longer than a week or so, I would greatly appreciate your help in a certain matter." 

 

“Oh...if it’s _all right_ , General Sharrkan said Sphintus could stay for the next year, and I…” He swallows. “I don’t have anything terribly pressing to get home to at the moment.” _Until I don’t arrive on that caravan like I was supposed to and my Lady starts wondering where I am._ “I’d love to be able to help you with something! Is it paperwork?” A twitch of his magic, and the scrolls slide in neatly, much less in danger of toppling over.

 

"… No," Ja'far slowly says, repressing a twitch about having something in his office _touched_ because it was actually useful this time, and far more annoying is the fact that Sharrkan is saying things without consulting anyone first again. "It _does_ have to do with magic, though. Have you met Prince Alibaba Saluja of Balbadd yet? He's currently serving as one of Sinbad's generals, though I don't believe he was at the tavern last night." _More like hiding._

 

Alibaba...Alibaba...the name sounds familiar, but it takes a moment for it to click. “Oh, right! That’s Aladdin’s friend, isn’t it? Funny, I also heard about a gladiator in Laem with that name several years ago. Is he in need of some assistance?”

 

Ja'far smiles. "He could use a crash course about what it's like to fight a real magician that isn't a Magi, if you'd be willing to lend your services. I thought you might appreciate a chance to stretch your wings, so to speak, as well."

 

Titus brightens for a second, then hesitates. “Ah...are you sure that’s a good idea? Not to be entirely rude, but I _am_ the Empress’s First Magician, I doubt it will be much of a contest. What special powers does he possess?”

 

"He's a dungeon conquerer in his own right, and a Magi's chosen king, for what that's worth," Ja'far drawls. "Even if it is no contest, he still needs to learn what it's like to face a capable magician in combat--and I have heard nothing but praise for your skills from Aladdin over the years." 

 

Titus nods slowly. In one of their first meetings, he’d sparred with Kougyoku, and that had certainly been interesting. “I fear I must warn you,” he tries again, “my style is far less suited to casual fighting and far more to ending things quickly. If he’s not strong on defense, things will not go well for him.”

 

"All the better," Ja'far brightly returns. "He has much learning to do, which I am sure can be accomplished over the extent of your stay."

 

Cautiously, Titus nods. “All right, then. As long as you permit me to warn him in advance. I fear nothing else would be quite...sportsmanlike.”

 

Oh, that should rile Alibaba up hilariously. Sinbad will love this. "By all means, tell him whatever you will. I'll arrange something for tomorrow, then."

 

“Excellent!” Titus beams, hand on the hilt of his wand. “As you say, it will be good for me to exercise my talents for a change.” Not that he’ll really be able to get much _exercise_ this way, but at least a dungeon capturer should provide a workout.

 

"And I am sure Alibaba will _greatly_ appreciate your help in his training." _This poor child is going to be so disappointed._

 

~~

 

“It’s a good thing you weren’t too busy,” Sinbad says cheerfully, about twenty seconds after dragging Alibaba away from Morgiana’s bed. “I think you’re going to enjoy this. Your Magi’s friend from Laem has agreed to spar with you. You have Amon’s sword, right?”

 

Alibaba kind of wants to kill something.

 

At least that's the right motivation to go into a spar, he supposes, even if he's barely awake, only just dressed, and with his hair fraying at the edges because it hasn't been tied back properly just yet. "I… uh, yes, I do, but--you know, I had _promised_ to meet her, you don't see me interrupting you when you're lazing around in bed all day with your _various_ \--"

 

"Oh, good, you were able to find him, Sin."

 

Ja'far near the sparring grounds is always terrifying and enough to make him freeze up, recalling _very vividly_ the few times that Sinbad has urged his advisor to help train him. The conclusion was always _you're not quite ready yet_ , something that burns at his thoughts and stresses him, no matter if he can perform a full djinn equip and set the palace ablaze. _Still not good enough._

 

A _magician_ is different than a household vessel user, though, Alibaba thinks, side eyeing Titus immediately. Way more delicate physically, which is good for him, when he _knows_ his offense is strong. This shouldn't be _so_ hard to do, and it'll be good practice, besides.

 

 _So, this is the infamous Alibaba_ , Titus thinks to himself. He’d heard hushed stories of the man conquering fearsome enemies, back in the day. 

 

He walks up close, wand drawn and held loosely in his hand, and gives Alibaba a gladiator’s bow. “Sir Alibaba, I find it only fair to warn you that in my home country, I occupy a position of high prestige, and would not be insulted if you chose not to face me in combat for fear of losing your life.”

 

Sinbad sidles close to Ja’far. Out of the corner of his mouth, he mutters, “This is going to be _good_.”

 

"Told you," is the low retort hidden behind a sleeve.

 

Alibaba outright twitches at that, though he tries to smooth the irritation from his face. "I can assure you I have no reason to fear for my life," he says, stubbornly lifting his chin as he draws Amon's sword. "Don't hold back for my sake! Dwell in my body, Amon!" 

 

Oh, well. On his own head be it, at least Alibaba had been warned.

 

Titus pivots on the spot, wand extended in a fencer’s thrust. “Sparkling glory,” he intones in a flash, “Sharrl Temsud!”

 

The sphere of water that closes around Alibaba extinguishes the budding flames in a second, freezes completely to ice, and at a whispered word, shoots the man into the sky only to send him crashing down again, shattering the sphere.

 

Titus straightens up, holding his wand loosely at his side. “Would you like to go again?”

 

Sinbad nearly bites his lip through trying not to laugh.

 

 _Casually_ , Ja'far carefully slinks a pace behind Sinbad to better cover his mouth and stop himself from laughing.

 

Alibaba is starting to have a healthy loathing for water magicians. 

 

Every last one of them have been _unfair_ , from Judal to Yamu to _this one here_ , and he grinds his teeth as he picks himself up, thrusting his sword forward. _Faster this time, I have to be faster._ " _Yes_ , we're going _again!_ Dwell in my body, Amon--" 

 

"How long," Ja'far somehow manages between giggles, "should we let this go on?" 

 

“One more,” Sinbad somehow manages, turning red with the effort of not bursting out laughing. He has to bring up a hand to cover his mouth as Titus hits Alibaba with a different spell, this one not only disrupting his djinn but whirling him head over toe a good dozen times in a single second before dumping him onto his head. “No, wait, wait, one more, I _can’t_ \--”

 

Ja'far chokes, burying his face into his own sleeve as his shoulders shake in his poor attempt to conceal his own mirth. "S-Sin, he's going to kill him, just--"

 

"One more time!" is the angrily ground out retort from Alibaba, and Ja'far thinks _he'll_ be dead, by the end of this. 

 

“Look, look, he wants to go again!” Sinbad insists, tears in his eyes now.

 

On the grounds, Titus shrugs, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear. “As you wish. Here, I won’t use water this time. Halharl Sarashru!”

 

A box of light forms slowly around Alibaba, the heat from it so hot that the flames from the man’s body instinctively quell.

 

"Enough, enough!" Ja'far manages to choke out, not terribly interested in watching Alibaba _roast_ to death, nor listen to the boy's screams for an extended period--no matter how he seems bound and determined to summon his djinn at all costs. He jams an elbow into Sinbad's side, no matter how his own skin is flushed from trying not to burst out laughing. "Thank you, Titus, I think our point has been proven for today."

 

"Your _point?_ " 

 

Oh, dear, Alibaba is mad. _This part is yours, Sin_ , Ja'far thinks, quickly ducking back behind him before he can start _crying_ from how desperately he wants to simply crack up. 

 

Titus sheathes his wand at once, giving Alibaba a low bow. “The honor was mine. Any time you wish to spar again, I will be more than pleased to oblige you.” Really, he’s fairly sure he’s done quite well, no matter how difficult it had been not to make jokes.

 

With an immense effort, Sinbad masters his humor, swinging down into the arena to get an arm around Alibaba’s shoulders, steering him off out of the arena. “Thank you,” he says, with as much gratitude as he can fit into his voice. “We’ve been at a loss to see what he can do when he’s not holding back. You’ve helped us assess his capabilities quite well!”

 

"You were letting him use me as _target practice?!"_ That might have escaped far too loudly and incredulously, and Alibaba shoves at Sinbad no matter his sore, aching muscles, scowling up at him. "Why didn't _you_ do it?! Let me back in there, I'll--"

 

He shuts up with a shudder the moment Ja'far jumps down into the arena as well, and promptly jerks his gaze away. _Nope_ , not doing that today. 

 

Sinbad lets his tone take on a hint of disappointment. “I had _hoped_ you’d give him a run for his money, show him what the self-appointed ruler of Balbadd can do. But this is a form of information too, I suppose.”

 

A stressed noise is strangled down into Alibaba's throat. "… Did you _see him_ , though? He's _really_ fast, damn it!"

 

“Mmm, fast and powerful. You should commiserate with your Magi, I think you have losing a duel to this man in common.”

 

Alibaba settles for gaping. "I… if you knew _Aladdin_ had lost to him, then _why_ did you need me to?!"

 

Sinbad shrugs. “I didn’t _see_ that. Also, Aladdin had most of his rukh channeled off at the time, and was barely more than a child. I personally also wanted to see how he would fare against a djinn, but...well, maybe another time.”

 

"Let me fight him again tomorrow!" Alibaba insists. "I'll do better then, I know what to expect this time!"

 

“If you want to fight him tomorrow, be my guest,” Sinbad says generously. “Literally, since you are a guest in my home, and so is he. You may ask him to spar, or for all I care, challenge him to a real duel.” That would neatly solve at least one of his problems. “I’ve seen what I wanted to see.”

 

"Fine, I will!" Alibaba shoves away, stalking back towards the palace. "Then I'll do that, just don't _drag me out of bed_ tomorrow when I already have _plans!_ "

 

"The _mouth_ on him lately," Ja'far mildly comments as Alibaba rapidly retreats. "I suppose they all grow up eventually." 

 

“Hmm. Aladdin grew up to bring fertility back to this region, Morgiana frees the slaves, and Alibaba snaps at me and loses fights against magicians. _This_ is why I never declared an heir from my own children,” Sinbad points out, leaning back against the wall. “You never know which ones are going to disappoint you.”'

 

"He's just a slow bloomer, I think," Ja'far gently chides, turning back to Titus with a smile. "You're welcome to go, Titus. You did very well, and thank you for humoring us. I have no doubts you'll hear from Alibaba again very soon." 

 

Titus gives Ja’far a bow, cheeks a bit pink from the exertion. “I hope I didn’t bruise him or his pride too badly. Ah...you’d know better, where is it acceptable for me to...be? Until my friend finishes his tour or whatever?”

 

"Oh, has Sharrkan still not returned Sphintus to you? How rude of him," Ja'far sighs, shaking his head. "I'd tell you to go harass him personally and tell him that I asked he _release_ Sphintus immediately… but he is never easy to find when I need him." 

 

“He returned briefly last night--to his rooms,” Titus amends quickly, face flushing as he looks away. “But they left again early this morning. Uh, I think. He said something about finding certain illnesses peculiar to island-dwellers that he wanted to study.”

 

Sinbad raises an eyebrow at Ja’far, then makes a casual retreat, leaving the two together.

 

 _Oh, thank you_ , Ja'far thinks with a mental roll of his eyes. _I do so love being left to take care of the children yet again. Have a good day, Sin._

 

"Then he will be quite preoccupied today, I suppose… you're welcome to accompany me," Ja'far offers. "Though I can't promise your day to be very interesting. Barring that, there _is_ the library, or if I could convince Judal of it, I'd have him show you around the marketplace." _You are definitely not allowed out alone._

 

Titus’s eyes light up. “That’s right, I’ve heard of your markets! They talk about them all the way to Heliohapt--I heard there are more than twenty kinds of fish, and that people come from all over the island and sing and chant and dance? And they spend money, and throw it into hats?”

 

_How much do I have to beg Judal to behave and watch him properly?_

 

Oh, who is he kidding? The brat is probably unmoving still from Sinbad's bed, and will stay that way for at _least_ a week. _I don't have time for this_ , Ja'far desperately thinks, glancing over his shoulder and inwardly cursing Sinbad's quick retreat _._ "How about," he says, resigning himself to another day of not working anywhere near as efficiently as he would like, "you meet me in an hour outside of the parliamentary headquarters, and I'll escort you there personally?" 

 

“Really?” Titus’s smile widens until his cheeks almost hurt, casting glances out the windows at the bustling streets. “Well...I mean, if you’re not too busy, I’d _love_ that! I can’t imagine--no, you must have work, don’t worry about me.”

 

"It seems a little rude for your friend to have a full escort about Sindria but not you, doesn't it?" Ja'far gently chides. Ah, well. It isn't as if he hasn't burnt down lamps and candles deep into the night to meet deadlines before, anyway. "Go get yourself cleaned up, and I will see you then." 

 

Titus can’t help but jump at the chance. “Yes, Milord! I’ll get changed at once!” He runs off so quickly he takes to the air, only remembering to touch down to the ground at the end of the hallway as he speeds out of sight.

 

If he is going to spend his time _not_ working, then _someone else_ will. 

 

Sinbad is easy enough to corral, harder to push into an office, and Ja'far finds himself already scowling two seconds into the attempt. "You are already behind several days courtesy of Judal's arrival--at least make an _attempt_ to accomplish something, would you?" he snaps. "I cannot entertain all of these little games of yours and finish all of _my_ work _and_ yours in a timely fashion without losing sleep, Sin. Your Magi does not need your hands all over him all hours of the day." 

 

“He _likes_ them there, though,” Sinbad protests, and ah, Judal had looked so _cute_ , curled up around just one of his hands and smiling in his sleep. “I need to, you know, make sure he readjusts to Sindrian life without a shock--I should probably go do that now,” he tries, and makes a break for the door.

 

"You should _probably_ ," Ja'far flatly intones, reaching out a hand to snatch Sinbad back by the ponytail, "sit at your desk, and get your work done. Don't _make me_ impose another alcohol prohibition as punishment for your lack of work ethic." 

 

“You’re very grumpy today,” Sinbad complains. He sits, a bit miserably, eyes crossing at the stack of papers and tiny, _tiny_ handwriting making up the majority of the black ink. “What’s got you so upset, hmm?”

 

"I just told you! I am having to skip a day of my own work in order to escort that boy around." Ja'far sighs, folding his arms into his sleeves with a shake of his head. " _Honestly_. Don't make a face like that; if you would actually work efficiently, I'd let you have Judal in here, but I know the two of you would distract each other thoroughly the entire time."

 

 _Escort_ sounds like _fresh air_ , both of which sound a hundred, a thousand times nicer than this. It isn’t that he wants to make Ja’far’s life _harder_ , just that...there’s just so _much_ work, and Ja’far is so much better at it… “Why not let me escort the boy around the city?”

 

Ja'far looks at him skeptically. "Weren't you the one asking _me_ to 'make him feel at home'?" he deadpans. 

 

Sinbad sighs. “Fine, fine. Go galavant without me. Just try not to look so fearsome, you’ll frighten the boy out of his wits and then I’ll never manage to poach him away from his family.”

 

"You're joking, right? He already clings to my robes, I will never be able to be rid of him," Ja'far mutters. Maybe he will make a decent office assistant of Titus in the future or something.

 

That’s sort of a cute mental image--Sinbad has often entertained the idea of making a chapter in his books where Ja’far the eight-horned fire-breathing demon finds a clutch of hatchlings that clutch at him and nest in his hair.

 

Probably not something he should mention aloud.

 

He reaches out a hand, tugging Ja’far closer by the front of his robes. “Do _attempt_ to show him some interesting places, will you? Get him to stay, don’t just talk about architecture and libraries. Not that Sindria doesn’t have the finest in the world.”

 

"I know how to be a tour guide, thank you very much," Ja'far protests, letting himself be drawn close and bending low over the desk as he heaves a sigh. "Honestly, though, I think the boy is more concerned about being able to curl up with his lover safely more than anything else. It's a little sad, seeing how paranoid he is. We really do take things for granted here."

 

Sinbad gives him a shrug. “Maybe you do. It’s a little less taking things for granted when I carved those things with my own two hands, a little more reaping the rewards. Still...you’ll let me know if I ever take you for granted, won’t you?” he asks, teasing slightly as he pulls Ja’far down for a kiss.

 

Instinct warns him that there’s someone in the doorway, but he keeps kissing Ja’far for a long second anyway, dropping down easily into his chair. “Right, then you’re busy. Go show our guest a good time.” _He’s just outside trying to pretend he didn’t see that, anyway._

 

 _You did that very much on purpose_ , Ja'far irritably thinks as he straightens, offering Sinbad a last, put out stare before turning on his heel to walk out. _"Work_ ," he flatly says over his shoulder before pulling the door shut, and offering Titus a smile. "Well, then. Shall we go?" 

 

“Y-yes!” 

 

Titus looks up at the sky, down at the road, _anywhere_ but at his guide. His pulse pounds with the knowledge of what he’d _seen_ , the secondhand fear for Ja’far’s sake, the thought of what would happen to Sindria if Laem found out…

 

_That can never happen, not when they’ve been so good to me already. No matter what happens, I’ll keep that behind my teeth._

 

His stomach churns.

 

There's no use spending the day with them _both_ being high strung, especially if Titus is at unease to the point of distraction. Ja'far heaves a sigh and simply _looks_ at him, about as fond as talking about his own interpersonal relationships as he is of chasing Sinbad down to do work, but, well… "The citizens of Sindria write novels about it, you know. It's quite ridiculous."

 

Titus jumps at the sudden speech, flushing guiltily even though there’s no way Ja’far could have known his thoughts. Probably not good, that his hand had flown to the hilt of his wand that easily, but the long weeks of traveling had restored the hair trigger he’d had when he was younger. “Ah, about Sindria, Milord? Er, Ja’far, I mean?”

 

Ja'far's eyebrows slowly raise. Yes, definitely good that _he_ is the one escorting this boy around. "No. Well, yes, but I am referring to Sinbad and I. Particularly," he wryly adds, "since the last war with Kou." 

 

“Oh! Yes, I’ve read those. Though I must say, you don’t seem nearly as fearsome as you do in those books, with all the horns and the fire. They’re...not exactly recommended reading in Laem, but I found a copy when I was away at school.”

 

 _Honestly_. Maybe he _should_ have given this one to Judal, he's much better at being _frank_ about this sort of thing. 

 

A deep breath, and Ja'far simply grabs him by the arm, veering sharply down an alleyway off of the streets. "Not those novels either. Sindria has something of a _fascination_ with what Sinbad does in his spare time, and a 'sweeping tale of romance' seems to be very marketable these days. It also," he deadpans, pointing to the wall behind him, heavily graffitied with enough _fan artistry_ to keep someone satisfied for days, "results in things like this. They always draw me too short." 

 

Oh.

 

Well.

 

That’s not exactly the kind of court painting Titus remembers from home. 

 

He looks around, from the wall to the citizens, walking casually past and talking about nothing in particular. “No one...no one is coming to clean it up. No one...cares?” He swallows hard. “Do you have any idea what would happen in Laem?”

 

"I am well aware." Ja'far heaves a sigh, pulling Titus away again. "Believe it or not, I was telling the truth earlier when I said that most of the people of Sindria couldn't care less about this sort of thing."

 

“It…” Titus stares down at the road, fighting the urge to turn back and look at the painting one more time. “It’s not that I didn’t believe you, exactly. I just...can’t imagine it.” He grimaces, and prepares to reveal himself--which, surely at this point, Ja’far has guessed anyway. “I don’t think I’d fare too well against the lions with my magoi stripped and my eyes torn out, given only a metal hook.”

 

"… No," Ja'far slowly replies, wondering how in the world a country blessed by a Magi for centuries is so… ridiculously _strict_. "I don't think you would." Flipping a vendor a coin, he calmly pushes a bag of candied fruit into Titus's hands. "Eat, you are white as a sheet. And relax, else the general populous think I am indeed escorting you to your death." 

 

Titus starts guiltily, taking the unfamiliar bag and popping one of the items into his mouth, eyes going wide at the sudden bright spark of _flavor_ on his tongue. “This is delicious! It’s--it’s--what is it? No, it’s a fig, I know this, but it’s just a little slice, and all hard, but it tastes like a fig, only sweeter! Is it magic?”

 

"No, just sugar, and quite a bit of it. Sindria has always been rather famous for its street food, though nowadays, Judal's preferences certainly show through…" A little sigh follows. "Anyway, as I was saying. There's little reason for you to be afraid here, Titus. Absolutely _no one_ will throw you to the wolves--or lions, as it may be--for such a thing."

 

Titus gives him a small, bitter smile. “That may be, but were word of anything of the kind to get back to Laem, I would have one hell of a welcome waiting for me upon my arrival.”

 

Ja'far can't help but shake his head. "I never said you had to be indiscrete about it. It took Sindria twenty years to have a clue about His Majesty and I. And, quite honestly, if Laem _were_ to find out and do something like that, the king has already granted permission for your extended stay here. It would not be so difficult for you to become a Sindrian citizen." 

 

Titus drops another piece of fruit, suddenly a lot less hungry. Sindria smells good, the warm breeze salty and refreshing, with no walls that spring up around him and no eyes that look at him with anything like curiosity. “With all due respect and...all due _gratitude_ , milord, I know my place. I will ask you not to tempt me with the things I know I cannot have.”

 

"Just Ja'far," is the automatic correction. "And it is merely an offer, nothing more. I see no reason why you _couldn't_ have such a goal in mind, all things considered, but of course, you are under no obligation to stay if you do not wish to."

 

“Were it just myself…” He’d thought he wasn’t hungry, but that hadn’t lasted for long. It rarely does. He picks up another piece of fruit--apricot, amazing--and chews slowly. “You know who I am. I have a wife, a son, a...my liege lady would...take my absence amiss.”

 

"Your wife and child can also be brought here," Ja'far simply replies. "Our Magi is quite fond of her, after all." 

 

“It would be war if--”

 

Titus cuts himself off, shaking his head. He’d learned long ago that there would be no other end for him, but that doesn’t stop him from enjoying the sights and smells of the marketplace. “I’m sorry to speak so maudlin. Hey, are those real fish? With the heads on and scales and everything?”

 

"… Yes," Ja'far sighs, dropping the conversation for now when it's clear Titus isn't quite going to budge just yet. "Here, if you'd like to browse, I--"

 

"Hey, you're actually out and about on the streets? Maybe Heliohapt _did_ break you of being such a homebody!" 

 

It takes about a second before Sphintus's arm swung tightly about Titus's shoulder follows the words, grabbing him in a tight squeeze. "I _finally_ got rid of my idiot cousin, let's have some fun. Ah," he pauses sheepishly, bowing his head when he notices Ja'far, "sorry, did I interrupt?"

 

 _No, take him, I don't want him. The less I have to awkwardly talk about my 'relationship' with the King of Sindria, the better._ "Not at all. You are more than welcome to be his guide in my stead, I was merely showing him around." 

 

Titus’s eyes light up in a way he can’t even try to hide, laying his head on Sphintus’s shoulder like the bastion in his own private storm. “Ah, thank you, Mil--Ja’far,” he corrects himself. “I’m grateful for the tour, but I’m absolutely certain you have work to do back at the palace that I’m keeping you from.” He turns, muttering urgently, “They have _fish_ here, Sphintus! With the heads and scales and probably the bones still inside!”

 

"Yeah, that's kind of what fish are like," Sphintus teases, promptly stealing a piece of candied fruit from Titus's grasp. "After we're done walking around here, we can go to the beach, I'll teach you how to catch some."

 

Ja'far makes a mental note to ask Sharrkan about Heliohapt tradition regarding supposedly illicit love affairs.

 

“Really?” Titus grabs Sphintus’s arm, tugging him down the market street. “I’ve read about fishing! Oh, look at how many different kinds of _people_ there are here! Not to mention the feel of the magic of the place--I think this, where we’re standing, used to be part of the ocean floor! Can you imagine?”

 

"When they've got a Magi like Judal, I guess it's not so farfetched," Sphintus points out, letting Titus drag him along at will, no matter how he sort of wants to grab the other man by the waist and _squeeze him_ for being so damnably cute. "Sharr told me that King Sinbad approved my stay for the next year, in accordance with my father's wishes--that means we can stay here and enjoy all of it for awhile."

 

Titus halts in his tracks, face flushed happily this time. “General Ja’far told me we could stay as long as we wanted,” he admits. “I...I know we only planned on me staying a few weeks, but…” 

 

He bites his lip, fingers squeezing Sphintus’s arm. “I don’t want to go home. They don’t _need_ me there, and I like it here, with you. I’m going to stay until she finds out.” No need to say who “she” is. It couldn’t be anyone else, with intonation like that.

 

"… How about we just don't let her find out where you are?" Sphintus grins, pulling his arm free to simply lift him up, pressing a warm kiss to his cheek. "We're in another Magi's shields. She has no reach or influence here. What's she doing to _do?_ "

 

Titus hasn’t felt mischievous, disobedient like this for years, and he finds he’s _missed_ it. 

 

“That...sounds good,” he admits, and wraps his arms around Sphintus’s neck for a squeeze, though he drops them quickly enough. “Honestly, she doesn’t _need_ me, and I already gave her a grandson--and she _knows_ I won’t be doing that again any time soon. Come on, I want to see what other kind of food we can eat on the streets like savages!”

 

"You need to quit calling people savages at some point here," Sphintus dryly retorts, and he just barely resists giving Titus's ass a swat in reprimand. "Right, let's go, then--afterwards, I'm taking you down to the beach and seeing how well you swim!"

 

~~

 

As it turns out, Titus _isn’t_ much of a swimmer. He’s slightly put out about that, having read many books on the subject and yet _still_ not being able to master it, and it’s a very wet, salty, cold Titus that follows Sphintus to a tavern heartily recommended by cousin Sharr. 

 

“Hmm,” Titus says, looking critically down at his glass after the third (fourth? Sixth?) refill. “This...it makes you warm. Very. Very warm. Warm.”

 

"… I think you might have had enough," is Sphintus's amused reply, reaching over to ease Titus's glass out of his hold. It's sort of funny, thinking about how the man _clearly_ can't hold his alcohol when he's from a nation full of wine. "Take it easy, we have all night, you know." 

 

Titus pouts, remembers he’s a great magician, and tries to frown instead. “You don’t let me drink. M’lady doesn’t let me drink. Mu only let me drink once and he made me drink a whole bottle of wine by m’self, gross.” He flops sideways, head thunking down onto Sphintus’s shoulder. “What do they drink in Heliohapt?”

 

"Wine and beer, same as everywhere." Ah, yep, Titus is definitely drunk. Sort of cute, Sphintus thinks, lifting a hand to lightly pet his hair. "You don't need to drink so much to enjoy yourself, you know." 

 

Titus butts his head against Sphintus’s hand, face flushed, and laughs wickedly, leaning in to run a hand up Sphintus’s thigh under the table. “That’s not what you say when you want me to drink from _here_.”

 

Oh, god, Titus is one of _those_ drunks.

 

Sphintus swallows hard, the sudden and immediate mental image following those words a little close to impossible to suppress. "Yeah, well… there's still a time and place for that." _This isn't Heliohapt, people still use discretion._ He reaches down to gently grab hold of Titus's hand and push it away. "As in, behind closed doors."

 

Titus lifts a hand, pointing to the door of the tavern. “Door’s closed,” he points out, with impeccable tipsy logic. He starts to wriggle out of his chair and onto Sphintus’s lap, but it suddenly seems a lot further than he’d remembered, so he just keeps his head laying on the other man’s shoulder, hand coming up to paw at his chest. “You have such pretty muscles. Wow, that’s a weird word. Muscles. Muscles. Try it.”

 

"… Uh huh." _Thank god Sharrkan isn't here, he'd be laughing his ass off._ "Um, Titus, can you… not? People are staring, and I'm pretty sure you told me you hated that sort of thing." 

 

“They are?” Titus says, alarmed and too-loud. He looks around, doesn’t _quite_ manage to see anything beyond _face face counter glass face face_ , and leans over to whisper urgently, in too loud a voice, “Sphintus...I think I’m _drunk_. Take me home.”

 

"Just now realizing it, huh," Sphintus mutters, setting down his own glass with a sigh and leaving a few coins behind as he stands, grabbing Titus by the arm to pull him up. "Come on, then. Next time, I'm making you drink _slowly_ , so you actually enjoy it. No, don't put your hand down my pants."

 

“I _wasn’t_ ,” Titus protests, but now that Sphintus mentions it, it _does_ sound like a good idea--and a hilarious idea. “Hey, Sphintus, they have dirty graffitti here like in Laem, but about the _king_. Really, really dirty.”

 

"Yeah, I've seen it." It's a lot easier to just heft Titus up and carry him, but he has a feeling the man will protest if he does that without giving him a chance to _walk_ first. "Sharr thinks it's all some big joke, but he's kind of an idiot, so…"

 

Titus manages walking, credibly enough, though he does weave and clutch a bit at Sphintus and assorted bits of the city walls and vegetation. “They kiss like they mean it. They’re _pretty_ together,” he says, suddenly forlorn. “Are we pretty?”

 

Sphintus struggles not to laugh at that one. "Have you looked in a mirror lately?" he teases, giving Titus's hip a little pinch. "Even if I wasn't decent enough, you'd make up for it in spades."

 

Titus huffs out an alcoholic sigh. “But we need to be pretty _together_. You have a snake, though...I think that helps. Wow, what are these cobblestones made of?” He drops down to his knees a little clumsily, staring at the stones.

 

Yeah, he's done with this. In one easy grab, Sphintus scoops him up and tosses him over his shoulder with a swat to his ass. "We're pretty together," he reassures Titus without batting an eye. "People would be jealous, if they knew about us." 

 

Titus lets out an “Eep!” sort of noise, then goes limp, draping happily over a broad shoulder. “Hey…we should make a country. Like Sinbad. But for men like us. Like me, anyway.” He frowns. “And then do something so it would last a few generations.”

 

"Yeah, let's not. We can just stay here." _Thankfully_ , the palace is a relatively short trip, and better yet, that their rooms are on the ground level. Sphintus thinks at some point that he should tell Sharrkan to just… get rid of the second one--it isn't as if they ever _use it_ , after all--but that can come later, when he actually feels like telling his cousin that he and Titus are _involved_. 

 

Sphintus promptly dumps him onto the bed, shaking his head at the sight Titus makes. "I'm not letting you get drunk again. Geez, how did you _survive_ in Laem?" 

 

“Didn’t drink,” Titus replies promptly, and grabs at Sphintus’s tunic, dragging him down. “And I was miserable all the time. Hey, put it in me?”

 

"You're drunk," is the flat retort to follow. "I'm not taking advantage of you when you're like this." Kukulcan starts to slink away and off of his neck anyway, as if he expects it to happen all the same. _Traitor._  

 

Titus lets out a little whine, then struggles upright, wriggling out of his clothes. “I’m not a _maiden_ , I’m your _lover_ , you can’t take advantage of me.”

 

He twists around to kick off the last of his clothing, crawling until he’s on his hands and knees, spreading his legs apart, all shame gone with the really excellent beer this country has to offer, just enough left to make his cheeks flush, though not as much as the alcohol already has. “Hey...if you don’t want to put it in me, I’ll let you put it in my mouth. I know you want me to.” He’s usually far too embarrassed, but just now, maybe, just maybe it would be all right.

 

That _has_ to be a record, Sphintus thinks to himself with a grimace. Normally, he doesn't backtrack on things he's said _quite_ so quickly… but god, Titus isn't playing _fair_. 

 

It's impossible not to reach out a hand and grab hold of that pretty face, cupping Titus's chin to tilt his head up as he drags a thumb over his lips. "You've got that on the mind tonight, don't you?" Sphintus murmurs. "Bringing it up in public like you did… you're lucky I didn't shove you down right there and make you suck me off." 

 

He'll apologize later, if Titus is really and actually upset about it in the morning.

 

Titus feels giddy more than anything, all the old aches and hurts inside and out fading until they’re nothing, until he can think of nothing but how pleasantly his body fizzes and how nice Sphintus smells, how nice it feels when Sphintus touches him. His tongue darts out to flick over that thumb as he looks up, focusing with just a little difficulty on the other man’s face. “Been thinking about your cock,” he admits. “Mm...if we had a country I’d let you do that, use me in the taverns and just...sit me on your lap and fuck me everywhere.”

 

Sphintus briefly rethinks his vetoing of the making-their-own-country idea. He swallows hard, slowly pressing his thumb forward to rub it against Titus's tongue, trying to remind himself to take it slow and _enjoy this_ \--but Titus is so eager, so damnably _cute_ when he's drunk, and definitely as close to _slutty_ as Sphintus has ever seen him. "I'll do that anyway," he mutters, reaching down to loosen his robes, hissing out a sigh as he pulls his cock free. "You'd like that way too much, wouldn't you? Letting everyone see what a _whore_ you can be."

 

Titus lets out an involuntary whimper, eyes going wide and eager at the sight of Sphintus’s cock, lips closing around his thumb and sucking. “Mmm,” he agrees, only letting it slide out to murmur, “You’d...tie me up and let everyone use me, right?”

 

It’s the opposite of anything he wants, but the words falling from his lips make him so hard he can’t stand it, and Sphintus somehow always _knows_ , even though Titus is usually not nearly drunk enough to _admit_ it.

 

His mouth goes dry at that. Even if he'd never share Titus a day in his life, and _especially_ not like that, there's no denying how hard it makes him--and Titus, too, without a doubt. "Yeah," is the low, throaty rasp to follow, and Sphintus slides his hand around, fisting it into Titus's hair to pull him forward. The head of his cock rubs over those pretty, soft lips, and Sphintus's breath catches hard. "I'd use you first, though. Then you'd be nice and slick and _easy_ for everyone else to fuck. You're always so tight, it's the least I could do." 

 

A shiver goes through Titus’s whole body, and even as hesitant as he usually is to get on his knees and do this, right now it seems like a very, _very_ good idea. “How many?” he breathes, eyes lidding as he takes Sphintus’s cock into his hand, loving the heat, the weight of it, rubbing the head over his lips and darting his tongue out for a taste.

 

Oh, that’s not _nearly_ so bad as he’d thought.

 

His cock throbs, and he places a sloppy kiss on the end of it, breath coming fast. “How many men would you whore me to?”

 

It's a little hard to think, let alone _talk_ when Titus is doing that. Just the _sight_ of him is too much, and Sphintus swallows hard, shutting his eyes briefly to get ahold of himself. "The whole damned tavern's worth, if I could," he breathes, fingers tightening in Titus's hair to tug him forward, his other hand stroking his cheek. "Open your pretty little mouth already, let's see if you can suck me like a whore." 

 

Titus quells the impulse to ask Sphintus not to be upset if he does it wrong, tells his protesting brain to _shut up_ , and opens his mouth, sliding his lips over the head and lowering himself down.

 

Ah, this is sort of difficult, but kind of _fun_ , and Titus sucks hard, letting the alcohol take away his embarrassment that he’s _drooling_ , that he probably looks like the basest harlot, that he’s making obscene choking noises even as he leans forward for more, and god, it’s almost as nice as having Sphintus in his ass, with how deliciously _used_ he feels already.

 

This is definitely unfair. It's not the first time Titus has had his mouth on him--though nothing has ever come of that before, with the other man usually too embarrassed to keep going, and that's _fine_ , it's just--

 

_Wow._

 

Titus looks far too good down there, his lips stretched out around his cock, everything slick and wet and sloppy, and Sphintus groans, sliding both hands back into his hair, tugging him forward gently for now as his hips rock forward to slide further down his tongue. "That's… really good," he breathes, eyes fluttering with every damned _noise_ Titus is making as well. "God, you were made to do this. Relax your throat a little, let me put it in all the way."

 

Even if Titus knows exactly what he was made for, he likes Sphintus’s version a _lot_ better. 

 

His face flames, but that doesn’t matter now, nothing matters except how hard he’s making Sphintus--he _loves_ making Sphintus hard, loves feeling him start to leak and throb because he’s wanting so much, and damned if he’s not going to take advantage of every second he can of that.

 

He tries to relax, swallowing rapidly around Sphintus’s cock, and looks up at him, whining and _hungry_ , feeling the thick slide of that cock stretching his lips wide, sliding down his throat and ah, that’s a _weird_ sensation but the look on Sphintus’s face is worth it, so worth it.

 

Sphintus thinks his own knees are going to buckle at this rate. There's no stopping the pull of his hands to drag Titus just a _bit_ further down, a hitching, ragged sigh of _relief_ at being entirely buried into that slick, wet heat escaping his lips. "You," he pants out, letting up just enough to let Titus _breathe_ before his hips lurch forward to rut against his face, "are perfect. Should see yourself, you're a natural, you slut." 

 

 _You always say that about sex things,_ Titus thinks, but it makes his stomach flutter, makes him giddy and dizzy, and it’s enough that he doesn’t _mind_ the way his lips and chin are sticky and wet, the disgusting choked whining noises he’s making, the fact that he’s splayed on his hands and knees sucking eagerly at a man’s cock. He doesn’t _mind_ , beyond as a pleasant burning shame that he sort of _likes_ with Sphintus, and ah, he tries to be _good_. He leans forward, swallowing hard around the length of that thick cock in his mouth, hands coming up to Sphintus’s hips to urge him in, leaning forward until his nose presses against the short hairs at the base, and oh, he really _is_ a whore for loving the smell and taste of a man so much.

 

Any other day, and he might try and savor his a bit more rather than just grab Titus's hair like the man so _clearly_ wants him to do, leaving him to rut and shove and slide and groan raggedly with every long, hard slide of his cock down Titus's throat. It's maddening, how good it feels, how good he _looks_ , and Sphintus is loathe to pull out, even if the image of Titus's lips, slick and bruised, the way he pants flushed and trembling, is so easy to engrain into his mind. "Tilt your head back," he breathlessly urges, his own hand fisting around his cock, moving fast and hard. He doesn't wait for Titus to do as he's told--his other hand fists tight in his hair, yanking his head back in one, easy jerk. "I'll… ahh, I'll mark you up, so everyone _knows_ you're my whore--"

 

Just saying it makes him come, makes him bite his lip to keep back his voice, and Sphintus spills over that pretty, upturned face, rubbing over swollen, parted lips and dripping over his tongue there, too, to mark him as thoroughly as he'd promised. 

 

Titus can’t catch his breath for long minutes, chest heaving, lips parted, leaving his mouth open even as he trembles and squirms, trying to let Sphintus see his handiwork, the taste heavy and musky on his tongue. He blinks damp eyelashes, feeling the sticky, viscous stuff dripping slowly down his face, trying to contain the instinctive humiliation, or at least just let it make him hard. 

 

Gods, it certainly does that. 

 

He finally swallows, looking up as he breathes, “How do I look now?”

 

"… Perfect," is the rasp of a reply, and it takes all of a second before Sphintus shoves Titus backwards, dropping him onto his back, his hands on those soft, soft thighs to shove them open. He _bites_ , sucking on the inside of one before coming up between his legs, unable to stop himself from licking a hot, wet stripe up the underside of Titus's own cock. "Look how hard you are," he breathes hotly against him. "You couldn't be any prettier." 

 

Titus lets out a squeal, and thank the gods for Sindrian beer. Sphintus likes this sort of thing more than Titus ever has, discounting today, and Titus grabs his hair, hips canting up frantically, needy, hungry, _wanting_. “Want you,” he moans, and his head tips back. He spreads his legs even as they tremble, feeling the tickle of Sphintus’s hair against them, and any other time he’d feel ashamed for the way he pleads, “In me, something, please, need it, need _you_ …"

 

Sphintus pulls away just long enough to slick a pair of fingers in his own mouth, and he grips Titus's thigh tightly, holding his legs apart to wriggle them inside, his own breath hitching at how _tight_ he is. "I'll take care of you, I always do," is the low, breathy reminder, and it takes barely a twist of his hand, a deep slide of his fingers before he strokes just _right_ , his mouth closing over the head of Titus's cock for a hard suck. 

 

“You _do_ ,” Titus groans, mindless, careless, and his eyes roll back into his head at the press of those long fingers deep inside him, almost more than at the hot slick drag of Sphintus’s perfect mouth. “Take such good care of me, you always know what I need, _fuck_ \--”

 

He rarely curses, but tonight it feels good. He bucks down onto Sphintus’s hand, and cries out when he feels Sphintus stroking in him, knowing how that gets to him, knowing, and even if Titus wanted to wait and enjoy this he’s so damnably worked up--

 

There’s no patience in his mind to pull out, and Sphintus isn’t fond of that anyway. Titus comes, too far gone to do anything but thrust up hard, spilling down Sphintus’s throat, every muscle in his body trembling, lays splaying, weak, used up. “S...Sphin….ugh, _help_.”

 

Sphintus slowly pulls back, swallowing hard as he does and lifting a hand to wipe his mouth. "No way," he breathes, grinning lazily as he slowly, carefully wriggles his hand free, wiping it on the bedsheets before he slides his way up between Titus's legs. "There's no help for it, you were _perfect_." Grabbing a discarded piece of Titus's clothing makes for a good, makeshift cleaning rag, and he gently wipes it over Titus's cheeks, across his shut eyes to better clean him up. "Maybe I _should_ let you get drunk more often." 

 

Titus huffs out a breath, everything still a bit _slower_ than it should be, and he reaches up to loop his arms around his lover’s neck, pulling him down, wrinkling his nose at the swipe of the cloth. “You like it when I suck your cock, hmm? Even if I was _embarrassing_ you out in town?”

 

"It wasn't _me_ you were embarrassing," Sphintus mutters, pressing a kiss to the corner of Titus's mouth. "You were gonna embarrass _yourself,_ I didn't want you to do something you'd regret tomorrow." 

 

“My mouth tastes like your _come_ , if I’m going to regret anything tomorrow it’s going to be that,” Titus mutters, burying his face in Sphintus’s shoulder. He sighs, nuzzling in, and murmurs, “I want to stay like this forever.”

 

"And aren't you glad it didn't up that way in public?" Sphintus dryly retorts, threading his hands through Titus's hair to gently stroke. "We can stay like this as long as you want." _Or at least until my father wants me back home._

 

“Mmm,” Titus grunts in assent, eyes sliding closed. “I just want to find a place where you can be a healer and I can be a magician and no one kills me with lions, is that _really_ so much?”

 

"That would basically be here or Heliohapt…" Sphintus rolls slightly to the side, grabbing Titus to drag him close and curl up around him. "Take your pick, whichever you prefer."

 

“Mm. Well, you have to stay here, so...let’s stay here.”

 

Sphintus sighs, burying his face down into Titus's hair. "All right." _For as long as we can, at any rate._

 


	3. Chapter 3

 

The Dark Continent is a _long way_ away.

 

Aladdin has had to stop and rest, sleep, and eat his fill a dozen times, though fortunately people along the way have been _very_ accommodating. He likes watching the ground change, the climate change, but it sticks in his chest when he thinks about how much he’d like to show it to _Judal_. 

 

 _Someday,_ he promises himself, and absent Judal, _I’ll come back here, and I’ll bring you. You’ll like the animals. I don’t know if you’ll like the weather, maybe._

 

It’s enough to make him curl up in his turban at night, far from people, in the top of a tree to avoid some of the big animals he’d seen wandering around. Nighttime comes, and he can’t help but stare at the stars. _I know they’re the same where you are. Don’t miss me as much as I miss you, okay?_

 

If not for Mor’s directions, he’d never have found Yunan. The Magi does an extremely credible job of hiding himself, even from Aladdin’s magoi sense, but Mor gives good directions.

 

It’s probably less than two months after leaving Balbadd that he finds it, landing gently on his bare feet and wrapping up his turban, wiping his face off on the bottom of his vest to make an effort at being presentable. Now that he’s close, he can feel the magoi coming from the place, pulsing just slightly out of tune with nature, following a faster heartbeat than the earth around him. _Yeah, this is the place._

 

Not entirely sure what he’ll find, Aladdin knocks.

 

"Ah, you made it a bit sooner than I thought you would."

 

The door doesn't open, and the voice instead comes from an open window that Yunan leans partially out of, his long pale braid spilling partially over the sill. He smiles slowly, and the door creaks open. "I made tea. I've had some practice, so hopefully it won't be as bad as the last time your friend showed up."

 

Oh. Mor hadn’t mentioned that Yunan is a really _pretty_ man.

 

Aladdin nods his head, entering the little house cautiously. “I should probably have come even earlier, but...I wasn’t sure. Thank you, I’d love some tea.” He leans his staff against the wall, next to Yunan’s, easing himself down into a chair.

 

"I _am_ surprised you waited as long as you did. But we all have our distractions, I suppose…" Yunan trails off, drifting from the window to retrieve the tea in question and pour Aladdin a cup before sitting down, crossing one leg over the other. "It's good to finally meet you, Aladdin." 

 

“You too!” Aladdin traces the movement of that long leg. Ah, maybe he’s been away from Judal too long, or maybe Yunan just has really nice legs. “Oh, I meant to say thank you, for helping Mor out. Oh, and she says hi, and thank you too, and that she took your advice.”

 

"Ah, good! Such a cute girl… I'm glad she stayed long enough not to be caught up in that mess of a war." Yunan's eyes lid as he leans forward, resting his chin in one hand. "Is that why you finally came, then? Advice?" 

 

Yunan has _strange_ eyes. Aladdin sort of feels like they’re casting a spell on him, but can’t help but stare anyway. “Not really,” he admits. “I came to ask you to please leave Judal alone, you’re really making him miserable.”

 

"Oh," is the sigh to follow, and Yunan waves a dismissive hand. "I can't do that." 

 

“Then,” Aladdin says very slowly, a bit unhappy that it had to come to this so fast, “I came to tell you to leave him alone.”

 

"My answer is still the same." Yunan smiles brightly. "How is the tea, by the way?" 

 

“It’s very good tea,” Aladdin says, and sets the cup down. “Why won’t you leave him alone? He hasn’t done anything, and he’s trying _really hard_ not to let the black rukh take him.”

 

Yunan sighs a long sigh, straightening with a push of his braid over one shoulder. "Occasionally, there are those born into this world that are meant to fall to depravity. Judal has a body that has done so once before, it is only natural for it to happen again. Perhaps _you_ are the one that should leave him alone. I am merely watching."

 

“But your _watching_ makes him unhappy, and when he does that his rukh gets all...stirred up. I _fixed_ him,” he says plaintively. “Solomon himself cleansed Judal and locked away the black rukh until he was ready for it.”

 

"And he went against Solomon's laws yet again," Yunan patiently points out. "So he has reaped what he has sowed, once more." 

 

Aladdin sets the cup down too hard on the table. “It’s not the same! He didn’t _mean_ to, he was afraid and trying to do what was best for his king, and someone told him the best way and it’s not his fault he believed it! And he feels bad about it and he’s trying to fix it and he can’t if you’re always staring at him!” Judal had woken up in the middle of the night more times than Aladdin could count, head butting against Aladdin’s chest, begging him to put on some kind of a shield to _protect_ him, because the eyes were driving him mad and there wasn’t any _escape_.

 

"Do you know," is the slow, measured reply, "how many humans fall to depravity without _meaning_ to? To save a loved one, a child, a lover, a _king_ \--should Solomon spare them as well, even after they have wronged so many?" 

 

“But you’re not giving him a _chance_.” Aladdin’s eyes are wide, pleading. “Look at all the good he’s done since I helped him! He’s a _Healer_ now, he doesn’t _want_ to fall to depravity, he just wants to build a good kingdom with his king.”

 

"You're really phrasing this all as if I have something to do with it," Yunan sighs, leaning back with a long stretch. "Judal lost himself to the black rukh once before, and if he does so again, then that is his own predisposed weakness. You helped him once before, certainly; the fact that you are here tells me that _it didn't work a second time._ Did you ever think that maybe… just maybe… there is a reason for that?" 

 

Aladdin folds his arms over his chest. “And if there is?” he asks quietly, eyes unblinking and serious now. “You did nothing when he was the Black Sun. You did nothing when his mind was raped as a _child_. You did nothing to help him, just sitting and judging, and what will you do if he becomes a Black Sun again?”

 

"I won't have to do anything," Yunan simply retorts. "A body, even a Magi's, simply can't withstand a _second_ fall into depravity."

 

Aladdin goes cold.

 

He’d known it, somewhere deep down. Judal probably does too, judging by the panic in his eyes. “So stop watching him.” His voice only shakes a little, which is impressive when he considers how much he just wants to fly to Judal’s side, to hold him and pluck off all the black rukh one by one and _make_ him all right. “You’re only making it worse. I won’t leave until you agree to leave him alone.”

 

"I'm not doing anything to make it worse." Yunan sounds amused now, his lips quirking into another smile. " _That_ is in his own head. For some reason, he thinks _I_ have done this to him, when he is the one that directly went against Solomon's law and used a djinn of _mine_. All I am doing is keeping an eye on him, so I know what part of the world to avoid should he turn again. Anyway, I have a spare room, if you are that intent on staying. You will be here for some time, I think…"

 

“That isn’t right.” 

 

_“Aladdin, please, do something, you’re the only person who believes in me--”_

 

“You never go anywhere. I don’t think you’d care if the whole world fell apart. All you’re doing is scaring someone who hasn’t done anything wrong--he didn’t know the thing with Baal was wrong, he was just trying to help. And for someone that talks about Solomon all the time, I don’t think you really understand what he would have wanted.”

 

The teacup on the table _cracks_ , and the remainder of its contents slowly trickles its way out. "And _you_ do?" There's less bored, airy mirth there now, gone in an instant as Yunan's eyes fix steadily upon Aladdin. "Tell me, then, little Magi, what Solomon would have wanted." 

 

Aladdin looks down at the teacup. Something about the way Yunan says the name stirs something inside of him, something big, sleepy, powerful. “I think he would have wanted to do what was fair. He gave Judal a second chance, and I’m _watching_ him. I think that...as long as Judal is doing good in the world, Solomon would have wanted him to keep doing that without interference.” He looks up, chin thrust out. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

 

"This isn't his second chance." There's an _edge_ to his voice now, something close to annoyance. "This would be his _third_. Even Solomon's Wisdom can't purify him this time, tell me I am wrong about _that_." 

 

“He doesn’t need to be purified! Not--not yet! He’s not even half-fallen, it’s just a _bit_ of black--is yours any different?”

 

"Oh," Yunan says softly, amused at that insinuation. "That's right. I suppose I _haven't_ let you have a look yet, have I." 

 

It’s true, no matter how Aladdin looks he _can’t_ see the other man’s rukh, a trick he’s never seen before, but… “I don’t need to see it. I know. I’ve met someone with rukh like yours before.”

 

"Have you, now." _I very much doubt that._ "Curious, how you are now attempting to concern yourself with me. You make a habit of this, it isn't healthy."

 

“Is that a threat?” The question isn’t an angry one, quiet and curious, pure blue eyes blinking up at Yunan. “Would you kill me, if you could?”

 

"You've been told before that _you_ are an anomaly, haven't you?" Yunan asks rather than answers. "A Fourth Magi, one that shouldn't exist. Did it ever occur to you that perhaps _you_ , chosen to receive Solomon's Wisdom, are far from being the _extra_ Magi in this world?" 

 

“People have told me a lot of things about myself,” Aladdin says softly. “No one really seems to know, and Solomon hasn’t said anything about it. Why are there only supposed to be three?”

 

"Because _there are only supposed to be three_." Yunan's head tilts. "A Magi is said to have infinite magoi, but that's far from true. There is only so much rukh in this world… there have only ever been so many _people_ , and only ever _will be_ so many. Perhaps three is all this world is meant to nurture. When that balance is tipped, then what is left but chaos?" 

 

_Wise words, but inaccurate._

 

The voice comes from somewhere _within_ , and Aladdin starts at them, before blinking over at Yunan, at the sweet face and long braid hiding such dark opinions. “You think Judal is the mistake.”

 

A light shrug follows. "It's a guess."  

 

“So you’re trying to get rid of him? Turn him into the Black Sun so he’ll self-destruct? What about Sinbad, then? You liked him enough to lead him to his first dungeon.”

 

"I told you before, _I_ did nothing--his second fall toward depravity was all his doing," Yunan dismisses with a shake of his head. "Sinbad is a good king, no matter how he has teetered in the past. He was one before Judal chose him, and he still will be after the fact."

 

“But Judal is his Magi! They’re--they’re linked!” Aladdin knows it, he’s _felt_ it whenever Alibaba’s been in danger. “Do you know what it’s like to be a king that loses his Magi?” 

 

Something waking in him _aches_.

 

"It wouldn't be the first time." Yunan leans forward, eyebrows arching. "Do you really believe the four of us are the only Magi to ever exist? Ah, and reverse that--how do you think you will feel, some day, when your king passes?"

 

Aladdin blinks several times, an odd sparking light flashing before his eyes, though he knows he’s the only one to see it. “I--I’d be _sad_ , he’s my friend, he--”

 

Maybe it’s something in the tea.

 

“Did you even ever pick a king?” Aladdin asks, fingers clutching the edge of the table.

 

Yunan's eyes narrow. "I am amazed," he slowly says, "that he didn't _tell you_." 

 

Aladdin’s fingers clench until the knuckles are white, forehead itching, _everything_ itching, teeth clenched, and he barely manages to grind out in an odd, almost foreign voice, “Say his name.”

 

Ah. This is odd. Very odd indeed, and Yunan supposes he should have _known better_. 

 

Even at his age, though, there is always something _new_ , isn't there? His smile is back, less tense as his eyes lid, intrigued. 

 

"Solomon."

 

Aladdin fades, and sleeps.

 

His body doesn’t.

 

Blue eyes blaze open, for a split-second brighter than the sun, and his mouth opens, breathing in Yunan’s magoi as easily as a human would air. When the glow dies, the blue in his eyes is darker, swirling, more purple than blue, shoulders back, spine straight, with the posture of a completely different man. 

 

Aladdin’s lips curve up, and he reaches out a hand, palm up. “Yunan.”

 

It's a difficult thing, not to lurch up from where he sits, to bodily throw himself across the table. A stupid impulse, when it isn't Solomon's _body_ that he would be grasping hold of. 

 

It might assuage the urge to breathe a bit too fast, though.

 

"… My king," is his low murmur, and Yunan stretches out his hand all the same, laying it atop Solomon-not-Aladdin's, his fingers curling slowly. "It has been some time." _Why this boy, why now?_

 

Solomon breathes slowly, tasting of the air, of the world, of Yunan’s magoi for a long few minutes before regaining the facilities to speak properly. His hand squeezes, grip firm, and he tugs Yunan closer, over the tabletop. “And yet...you don’t look pleased to see me. Do you fear me, my Magi?”

 

"Hardly," Yunan immediately breathes in response, his eyes lidded and dark as he squeezes Solomon's hand tightly as he rises, setting knee to the table to lean closer without hesitation. "Merely… hmm. It's a little jarring, your appearance," he mildly notes. 

 

“Of all people, I trust in you to see hidden truths.”

 

Solomon stands, and a ripple goes through the air--for a second, his form appears not to be a young man, but one in his prime, broad and strong and tall, hair streaming unbound to the floor, forehead blazing.

 

Then it fades, leaving Aladdin’s body, but the same deep voice asking gently, “Have I assuaged your worry?”

 

"… It'll do," comes Yunan's rather breathless answer, settling to simply sink to his knees atop the table. An _understatement_ , that. "But… why? Of all times, and through this boy…" 

 

“He is the closest I can come to a vessel.” Solomon smiles, fond and affectionate, reaching out to cup the side of Yunan’s face. “I would have thought that you would have sought him out years ago, knowing that he bears my seal. This is the first time I have been able to breathe your magoi and take form.”

 

The impulse to lean into that touch is too strong to resist, and Yunan nuzzles immediately into that hand, reaching up to grasp it and _keep it_ there. "I hardly thought it my place to rouse you from your sleep," he murmurs. "And to be honest, it is as painful as I thought it would be." 

 

Solomon’s fingers curl, thumb stroking over Yunan’s cheek. “You are not alone. I promised you that, long ago.”

 

Yunan's mouth twists. "I know. But there are none that compare to you, all the same."

 

Solomon smiles, eyes glinting even in the darkness of the cottage. “So you sequester yourself.” He rubs a thumb over Yunan’s lips, murmuring, “Your appearance is more distracting than I had anticipated. I had intended to speak of weighty things.”

 

It's with a too-fast, heated exhale that Yunan's lips part, drawing the tip of Solomon's thumb past his lips with a slow flick of his tongue. It isn't the same--not the deep callouses from his memory, but the _power_ is still there, and so it's very easily forgiven and forgotten. "So speak of them." His own eyes glitter from beneath his lashes. "I'm afraid I can't apologize for still being _distracting_ to my king, however." 

 

“You have ever been distracting,” Solomon doesn’t exactly complain, “and rarely apologetic.”

He reaches down, fisting his other hand in Yunan’s hair, dragging his head back. “Will you be able to pay attention?” he asks, voice a familiar, teasing thing. “Or should I bother to try before you’ve had your fill?”

 

There's little helping the _whimper_ that escapes his lips at that, throaty and over-eager. "I--" Yunan swallows hard. "I think, maybe… my attention span has waned, in your absence." 

 

The laugh Solomon lets out is one born of a thousand restless nights, lying draped over each other and attempting to keep each other on task, books being slowly, doggedly filled in with ink in between dabbing it on Yunan’s nose, trying to keep the end of his braid out of it. “You had patience when you sat at the side of my throne.”

 

The magoi flickers again, magic surging, and it’s Solomon’s own lips, rough chapped and strong, that meet Yunan’s, hauling him up for a long, long-awaited kiss.

 

Yunan is already so very, very lost.

 

 _This_ was not what he expected when that little Magi showed up at his doorstep. The pleading, giving way to anger and insistence, yes, all of that--but this? _Never_ , and it's too easy to push aside the annoyance of all the rest of it when he groans into Solomon's mouth, hands eagerly, _desperately_ scrabbling to slide about his neck, to tangle into his hair as he lurches upward. 

 

"I have patience still," Yunan pants between kisses, sucking the other man's lower lip into his mouth as he eyes flutter. "Just not regarding _you_." He can look away from that troublesome little brat for a few moments, he thinks. All the better, to focus everything he has on _this man._

 

Solomon pauses. He’d thought himself long, long, _long_ beyond human wants and desires, but that was before he’d seen Yunan again, seen that face so eager and beloved, felt the touch of his hands and his lips even on this unfamiliar body. “I fear it would take more magoi than you would care to part with to give me my old appearance, even for so short a time as it takes me to tend to your needs.”

 

Yunan's head shakes rapidly, hat attempting to slide off before he shoves it off and to the ground all the same. " _Your needs_ as well, my king," is his low, insistent murmur. "My magoi is at your disposal, take what you need so I can see you as you once were." 

 

That's as much permission as Solomon has ever needed.

 

He breathes in deeply, through mouth and nose and his pores themselves, his very being, and with every breath, he changes. 

 

Young, lean muscles become older, harder, larger. Aladdin gains an inch, another, three more of height, and the slender braid comes unbound, spilling to the floor in a mess of iridescent black, the play of light on it like oil on water. The face turns older, stronger, the weight of years lending him the strength of ages, hundreds of years on the mortal earth looking like a bare fraction of them, but weighty all the same.

 

He looks down at Yunan with familiar eyes, weatherworn skin creasing at the corners of his eyes in a smile. "Does this meet your needs, beloved?"

 

It's _worth it_ , no matter how Yunan hasn't felt so _drained_ in centuries. Worth it, no matter how he is dizzy with the heady pulse of rukh around them, and the sheer desire to lurch up and grasp is impossible to resist now, when Solomon is the same as he always was before him. 

 

"Yes." A breathless reply at best, and Yunan all but claws his way off of the table, grabbing for Solomon's hair and dragging his lips down again, needy and _hungry_ for the taste of his skin, the rough-hewn splay of his hands, the weight of his hair in his grasp, _everything_. "Yes, yes, _yes_ , it's been so _long_ \--" 

 

It's been a long time for Solomon too, though he expects it's somewhat...different. He at least has been dead.

 

He covers Yunan's body with his own, searching out every heartrendingly familiar quirk and curve, letting his lips find their way to the underside of a wrist, to the dip of a collarbone, parting his robes easily beneath broad, insistent hands. "You've had far the worst path," he murmurs, setting his lips to trail down Yunan's sternum, finding the skin just as soft, the clutch of his hands just as welcoming. "To be in this body for so long...how many times have you been truly sated, since I was forced to leave you?"

 

"You say that as if there is another that could ever match you." Yunan shudders as he sags backward, grabbing for the edge of the table with one hand, the other wrapped up into Solomon's hair, tugging and pulling and _urging_ that mouth to his neck. "There was another Magi," he breathlessly admits on a laugh. "A long time after you passed. But… they, too, have been gone for some years now." 

 

Solomon draws back, brushing the backs of his fingers against Yunan's cheek. "And you have been alone for a long, long time." There's a gentleness in his eyes that he'd rarely shown in life, rarely even to Yunan, and after a long moment, it fades to a more typical challenge. 

 

"Can your body still rouse to me as it once did?" he asks, and presses a hard sucking kiss to the Magi's neck, other hand sliding down behind him to grab and squeeze, lifting him easily in one hand. 

 

Breath leaves him in a rush, and Yunan is all too eager to wind his legs about Solomon's waist, to draw him in with a mindless little shudder as he sinks backwards, simply uncaring when he shoves aside the already cracked teacup in his splay and sends it to the floor. "More than ever," he groans, a hand clawing its way down to yank at the ties of Solomon's clothing. He _wants_ the man's mouth on him _everywhere,_ wants his marks littered over his flesh to admire later--no, more than that, he _needs it_. "Please, _please_ , have me as you once did, Solomon, my king--" 

 

"Ah, but now you are ancient," Solomon teases, rough hands dragging down Yunan's waist, stripping off his robes almost violently, needing him. "Shall I be careful with you, treat you as the precious jewel you once were to my throne?"

 

Even a gentle squeeze from his hands is enough to leave bruises, and Solomon leaves many, on thighs and buttocks and waist, littering the pale, smooth skin with marks from his mouth, his fingers. "Or shall I fill you roughly, the only one I could ever trust to be the object of my desire without breaking?"

 

Yunan's chest heaves, his hands claws on the other man's back as he arches, legs splaying wide and thighs trembling. "I don't--" His voice cracks, and he swallows hard, eyes fluttering shut as his hips rut up on their own accord, mouth falling open at that perfect, sinuous grind. Already, it's too much. He almost has to laugh at himself, sprawled out over his damned rickety table, hardly a sight fit for anyone, let alone his _king_ , and yet Solomon wants him still, grabs and bites at him like he's something he _needs_. 

 

"Take me," he begs, fisting a hand tightly into Solomon's hair, and the other grabs clumsily for his cock, dragging a thumb over the slick, dripping head of it and letting it slide down the underside of him. "I won't break, I _need you_ , take me _hard_ \--" 

 

Solomon should know better, by now.

 

Then again, he hadn't expected to feel a body's urges again, to smell Yunan again, to feel the drag of soft skin against the roughness of his hands again, and surely he can't be blamed. Not when Yunan needs him so, and it's always been about far more than physical pleasure between them in any case.

 

"Then take me into your body," he murmurs, gathering Yunan up into his arms, the movement so familiar it tugs at his heart. 

 

He's slow, at first, more than he'd thought he could be, but every bit of the way Yunan squeezes tight around him is overwhelming. "Take me into all of yourself, and know that I am yours."

 

The sound that leaves his throat is far more _mewl_ than anything, broken and sobbing and desperate before Solomon even fully sinks inside. It has been a long, _long_ time, and his body _aches_ , twinges and shudders at the too-tight fit, the tense stretch that isn't quite slick enough to be _good_ , but oh, he wants it all the same. 

 

Yunan can't _think_ past it all as he sags back, panting as his thighs bunch tightly around Solomon's hips, his back arching and his teeth sinking into his lip as he wriggles down, wanting and begging with every inch of his body. He's _missed this_ , agonizingly so. 

 

Surely, it hadn't been like this, all those centuries ago.

 

Surely, Solomon would have remembered if it were like this, tense and too-tight and not quite slick enough, but damned if he can be bothered with something like that when he's got a beloved Magi to fill. "I'm sure," he groans, teeth nipping at long pale arms, up them and down Yunan's chest, "there used to be more space inside you."

 

The rukh around them shivers--always does, always has, glittering bright and snapping in and out of patterns, the air glowing around them, and with every slow roll of Solomon's hips, the ground trembles.

 

It's little surprise that the table breaks, sending them crashing to the floor, Solomon holding Yunan close and only taking him harder because of it.

 

It's _fitting_ that he should be able to wriggle down into the ground as Solomon makes love to him--to hell with the table, he didn't like it anyway--and it feels all sorts of _good_ to wallow in the earth, to arch his back with a ragged, keening sound as it just helps Solomon slide even _deeper_ inside of him. 

 

It gets a little easier when his body stops shivering so and clutching _more_ at every slickened, aching slide, his heels digging into the earth as he lurches up with a sob. "Harder," Yunan pants out, and god, if he wasn't so enamored with how it feels to be on his back, Solomon's weight above him so hard and hot and _strong_ , he'd have long rolled them over to grab at those broad shoulders and ride the other man until his own eyes cross. He still might, what with how his cock twitches with the mere idea of it, and he shivers, head rolling back as his eyes squeeze shut. 

 

Solomon laughs, loud and low in his belly, and he rolls over, hoisting Yunan easily in two broad hands. "It's not safe to take you on the earth," he says, a twinkle in hungry eyes. "Not after Elbaleon."

 

They had laughed, laughed themselves sick after they'd lost control, the tremors of Yunan's release too much for the old palace to bear, crashing down around them in the pre-dawn light. And though this isn't much of a palace, it's Yunan's home, and hardly a reason to tear it down.

 

"Besides," he murmurs, one hand holding Yunan in place around his waist to guide him down, the other cupping his face to bring him down for a kiss, "you love to treat me as your prize stallion, do you not?"

 

The rukh shudders that much more, and Yunan _sags_ , his hands squeezing hard against Solomon's shoulders as his head bows, the long, messy tumble of his braid falling over one shoulder. "Perhaps," he pants out, half-laughing, "in a time when you leave me feeling less--ahh-- _weak_ \--" There's no _helping_ the hiccup in his breath, the way it feels to squirm himself entirely down, thighs trembling and muscles bunching with every slide and grind of their hips. His fingers claw and dig into Solomon's chest as his body bows forward, mouth hungry, desperately so, against his king's, and _god_ , has it ever felt so good to be so _full?_

 

There's no help for it, not when his body shivers and twitches until he feels like he'll break with every rock of his hips, his knees threatening to buckle each time he slides himself up. Yunan buries his face into Solomon's neck, panting hot and ragged and mindless as he finally, _gratefully_ spills, slick and messy between them as the rukh around them beats with his pulse.

 

Ah--that's the feeling he's missed most of all, buried entirely inside his lover, feeling him clench and squeeze with completion, tasting his lips, breathing with the pulse of his surrender. He slides a hand up and down Yunan's back, running a thumb over the bumps of his spine, throbbing hard and hot within him, body stilled as he takes the time to just taste.

 

It seems impossible that Yunan should taste the same, but he does, feels the same, bites the same, and Solomon takes of his mouth as thoroughly as he'd taken Yunan's body, a long, demanding kiss that asks everything, gives everything. "I can wait," he murmurs against Yunan's lips. "Until you're thoroughly sated."

 

Yunan huffs at that, his teeth catching against Solomon's lower lip as his breath catches on another whimper. "That will be some time," he whispers, eyes fluttering as he slides a hand back, biting his own lip when he traces his fingertips over the thick cock still spreading him, still _filling_ him so completely, and he sucks in a breath as he wriggles back, thumb catching against his own, stuffed full hole. "You're so _hard_ … how can you stand it?" 

 

Solomon hisses out a breath, moving his hips in a tight, slow circle. "That I can still impress you after so many centuries bodes well."

 

The hand on Yunan's back slides down, brushing over Yunan's hand, tracing over the edge of his hole. "Can you take it?" he asks, as gentle as he ever is. "Can you stand to have me still inside of you, even as spent as you are?"

 

He leans up, nibbling on the lobe of Yunan's ear, murmuring, "Tell me yes, and I will have you on every surface in your hovel until you forget we are not one and the same creature, and you forget what it was like to be empty."

 

A hard swallow follows those words. "… That better be a _promise_ ," Yunan somehow manages, shivering hard as his own hand slides away, _much_ preferring Solomon's touch and that perfect, _perfect_ slide and shove of his cock, no matter how he already _aches_. "I need it. You, all of you, enough to last me another half dozen centuries at _least_." 

 

Memory flashes, of Yunan sitting demure and confident by his throne, making cheerful jokes at his side, riding a lightning storm with murder in his eyes. It flashes again, of Yunan trembling and begging with his legs spread, laughing and sitting on his lap, Solomon's crown perched at a jaunty angle on his head, wearing nothing but the tie in his braid, hovering over their bed with hunger in his eyes, reaching sleepily for him in the middle of the night, hauling them both to their knees in the rubble of a battle's aftermath.

 

He can only be glad he's been dead for centuries, not wandering alone as his beloved had done.

 

Solomon moves, slow and careful, knowing that there was a time Yunan had taken him and his fingers and wanted more, a time they'd gleefully, drunkenly invited a few friends into their bed and satisfied them all, and knowing just as well that those times are long past. It's been a long time, and he slides up in long, easy thrusts.

 

"Have I ever broken a promise to you?"

 

 _Once_ , Yunan wants to tell him, though he supposes it's been redeemed well enough, with how Solomon has _returned_ to him now after leaving him.

 

His face still buries his way into Solomon's neck, deeply breathing in his scent as his fingers pluck at the tie of his braid, shaky and unsteady for every bit of it. "You… are still far, far too much, you know," he whispers, dragging his own fingers through his hair to unwind it as he pushes himself up with an arch of his back, mouth falling open at how it feels to push _down_ into those thrusts when he's already so sated, so oversensitive and _full_. 

 

Solomon grins. "I know."

 

His hands wrap around Yunan's hips, guiding him up and down, up and down, down, _down_ , harder and harder despite his conviction to be thorough rather than simply rough. Impossible, when he's inside Yunan, serving him well, feeling every clench and whimper around his cock. "And yet you've never disappointed me."

 

His hands are bruisingly tight on Yunan's hips, but Yunan bruises as easily as breathing, and Solomon knows better than to think that's an indication to stop. A finger traces around his hole, and he breathes, "You're stretched so tight...I'm surprised you're not screaming."

 

"Can't," is the immediate whine of a response, and Yunan tips his head back as he raggedly, desperately gulps for air, his hair spilling down over his shoulders as he squirms and twitches. There's little better than this man's _stamina_ , especially when his own body refuses to quit out of principle alone, no matter how weak and shaken he remembers being by the end of it all. "I… ahh… god… can't _breathe_ … when you're so…" He swallows hard, abandoning that thought. "Want you to come inside me. _Need it_." 

 

“Always in such a hurry.” 

 

It’s a fond admonishment, and Solomon’s eyes are dark, his hands gripping Yunan’s waist tightly. He sits up, the better to hold Yunan against his chest, and ah, when his Magi _wants_ him so much there’s nothing he can do, nothing but snap up into that blissful squeeze once, twice, three times, and let go.

 

The ground shakes, the hut trembling all around them, as Solomon finally goes still. “And if I know you,” he says affectionately, combing his hair through the long, damp strands of Yunan’s hair, “my Magi is still far from sated.”

 

Yunan shivers hard, his chin hooking over Solomon's shoulder as he leans his weight into the man's chest, savoring that hot slickness inside of him. "After all this time… I doubt I will ever be sated, my king," he murmurs, and just a shift of his hips is enough to make his eyes flutter and his hands grip more tightly into Solomon's hair. "Needed to feel you all the same." 

 

“And I, you.” Solomon strokes slowly down Yunan’s back, holding him close, and ah, it seems impossible that they should be _here_ again. “I don’t have much longer. Were you other than you are, I wouldn’t have managed this much.”

 

"So much for throwing me upon every surface," Yunan sighs out, his arms settling to drape over Solomon's shoulders languidly as he simply wriggles against him. When he thinks about it, he _is_ dizzy--the drain upon him far more than he has allowed in _centuries_. 

 

“Could I do so without killing you, I certainly would.” Solomon sighs. The days of youth and life are long gone, and with them, all but this brief moment. “The time has come for you to move. You have been gifted power unlike any in a thousand, thousand years, apart from this boy whose guise I have assumed.” He leans back, cupping Yunan’s face in two large hands. “Waste it no longer.”

 

Yunan's brow furrows, his head butting forward into Solomon's hands no matter his confusion. "… And do what, Solomon? Give word and I will carry out your will in this world, you know that." 

 

“I know, most faithful.” Solomon’s eyes flash, and the room grows suddenly larger, and larger, until they stand above the world, at least in Yunan’s mind. “The tide of blackness grows. A struggle is inevitable. Only _balance_ will restore the world to what it once was.”

 

The interplay of white and black rukh all around them dies, until everything is a small, quiet hut in the Great Rift once more. “Fight them both, those who claim light and dark. Test them yourself. Trust no one but yourself. Restore the equilibrium. Only then,” Solomon says quietly, stroking Yunan’s hair, “will I be able to return.”

 

Perhaps he has been apart from his king for too long--ah, well, that is certainly true in all things--or maybe he is merely _tired_ , what with how his world spins as Yunan buries his face into Solomon's neck. "I don't understand," he murmurs, squeezing tight to those broad shoulders, "but if it means you can somehow return to me, I will do as you say, one way or another." 

 

“Weigh the worthy,” Solomon says urgently. “These magi, they choose kings without knowing what it _means_. There will be a contest, I’ve never hidden that from you. When the next true king walks the earth, _so will I_ , as a man once more.” He claims Yunan’s lips in an urgent kiss. “Form for me a contest. Assemble the chosen.”

 

The cool of Yunan’s skin is as worrisome as the way he feels himself fading. “Then,” he promises, just before he disappears back into the boy, “I will return to you.”

 

"… As you wish, my king."

 

It takes _effort_ to pry himself away even after Solomon disappears, and god, how his world spins. Better, Yunan dimly, hazily thinks, to rest now, and mull those words over better when he can finally think clearly again, even if that it some distance in the future, and to be honest, the ground is as good a bed as any when his hair serves as a decent enough blanket and his long discarded robes a pillow. 

 

If nothing else, even as drained as he is, he sleeps _well_. 

 

Aladdin wakes confused.

 

Part of it is that he doesn’t remember going to sleep, certainly not in Yunan’s hut. The other part is that Yunan is asleep as well, and naked, and ah, so is Aladdin. Hmm. He’s pretty sure Yunan wouldn’t do anything _bad_ to him, not like... _evil_ bad. _Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe there really was something in that tea._

 

But if that were the case, how had the table gotten broken? And why would Yunan _sleep_ that way?

 

He reaches out a hand, flinching when he feels the texture of Yunan’s skin, the temperature of it. Right, first things first.

 

It takes some hours in the unfamiliar area, but Aladdin has his magic, and the Dark Continent really is a lush and fruitful place. There’s a giant bag of fruit next to Yunan by nightfall, and by the next morning, Aladdin attempts to poke him awake. “Hey. Yunan.”

 

It's a long moment before the man even begins to stir, blue eyes hazy as he slowly cracks them open as if his eyelids are far, far too heavy. "Mmn?" Yunan lets his head loll back to get a look at Aladdin before it flops right back down, his eyes shutting again. "Mmn. Sleeping, go 'way."

 

Aladdin blinks. “N-no! I don’t think we finished our conversation. Look, I came to talk about Judal, and if you’re just going to get naked and fall asleep--”

 

"Noisy." Yunan makes a grab for his hat--a lucky one, at that--and pulls it over his face. "Need to _sleep_." 

 

Aladdin glares down at the older man. “I even brought you food. The least you could do is tell me if I’m going to have to come back to fight you.”

 

Ugh, these children don't understand that when he _says something_ , he means it. "Don't need it. And I don't care about fighting, just be _quiet_." 

 

 “So tell me if you’re going to leave Judal alone.” Aladdin folds his arms. “I’m not leaving until you do.”

 

"No." Yunan wonders what takes more effort--throwing Aladdin out himself, or prodding Scheherazade for a favor. Better yet, ignoring him takes the least of all. "Going back to bed, good night." 

 

Aladdin grabs Yunan’s hat, yanking it off. “I don’t think you’re really in a position to fight right now!”

 

Yunan cracks open one eye before shutting it again and pulling his hair over his face to continue his doze. 

 

Aladdin’s eyes blaze, and he jumps to his feet, heat surging under his skin. It’s been years since something has made him this angry, and the fire magic rolls of of him in waves. “I didn’t come all the way to the Dark Continent for nothing!”

 

 _Really_. This one is persistent. 

 

He doesn't need his wand for this, though it would be _helpful_ to channel things properly when he feels so very, very exhausted already. Yunan twists partially upright, languidly extending a hand as his eyes flash bright, the sharp flutter and surge of his own rukh that gathers about Aladdin quickly quelling his flames and leaving them to dissipate as little more than steam. In his proper state, it would be gone entirely, but well, at least this leaves his home pleasantly warm and does wonders for his skin… 

 

"I need to sleep." He prides himself on sounding calm still when he is so _cranky_ now. "If you want to speak to me so badly, you can wait. Otherwise, get out, child."

 

Ah.

 

Aladdin...had not quite expected that.

 

Quickly, he rethinks the plan of confronting Yunan and _forcing_ him to stop what he’s doing. He’s pretty sure Yunan is as completely drained as he’s ever seen another Magi, and still he’d been able to deflect a powerful magic attack before it had even started.

 

Ah.

 

Aladdin sits, curls his knees up to his chest, and closes his eyes, thinking of Judal.

 

Yunan allows himself another day, before slowly rousing.

 

Ahhh, he's so drained that his _joints_ creak, and he pushes himself up with a long, wincing stretch, head throbbing still. _Worth it_ , he reminds himself dazedly, pushing the mussed fall of his hair over one shoulder, and he untangles himself from at least one piece of his robes to drape it around his shoulders. 

 

"You're still here," he notes of Aladdin, unable to help the wry twist of his lips. Yunan doesn't quite try standing yet--sitting up is a feat in and of itself--and he gathers up his hair to loosely braid it once more. "You must care very much for him."

 

“Yeah.” Aladdin’s voice is quiet, and he barely looks up from where his chin is tucked behind his knees. “I do.”

 

There’s really nothing else to say about that. “What happened?” he asks instead. “I don’t usually wake up naked with someone who tells me to get out.”

 

"Oh, my king possessed you," Yunan brightly answers, the memory still so _vivid_ that any lingering annoyance is easy to shake. 

 

Aladdin blinks. He remembers, sort of, that they were talking about Yunan’s king. That’s right, it was…

 

“Oh.” Aladdin stretches, scratching idly at the seal on his forehead. “I’m a little surprised it hasn’t happened sooner.”

 

"He needs my magoi to do it, and I haven't exactly seen _reason_ to rouse him…" Yunan trails off with a sigh. Not that _now_ seemed to be a particularly good reason, but, well. "Ah, no matter. Rest assured, it was hardly your body that I enjoyed. _That_ would have been awkward." 

 

Aladdin considers that, and frowns. “Only if you didn’t ask first. Then it’s rude.”

 

Yunan decides not to tell him that he certainly would have proceeded whether or not Solomon could have taken on his true form again or not, _regardless_ of permission. "Anyway, what were we talking about?" he sighs, languidly flopping backwards again. "Right. Your Black Sun." 

 

Aladdin raises up onto his knees, nodding as firmly as he can. “Yes. Look, I’m not asking you to like him or anything. I don’t even...I don’t even mind if you watch him, just don’t let him _know_ you’re watching him, it drives him insane and that _can’t_ be what you want.”

 

"Good," Yunan softly replies, "because I don't like him." 

 

He rolls himself to the side, contemplative. 'The time has come for him to move'--ugh. He doesn't want to get up off of the floor, let alone leave the Great Rift. "Would you rather I judge him in person, then?"

 

“Who gave you the right to judge anyone at all?” Aladdin asks, more distressed than angry at this point. “Judal’s a Magi just like you, he doesn’t _work_ for you. He’s not hurting anyone, so leave him alone!” He pauses. “But yes, if you’re going to behave like this, I’d rather you did it in person.” No one can see Judal and not think he’s adorable.

 

"… You really are stubborn." Yunan sighs, burying his face down into one arm. "I'm not 'behaving' like anything. I am merely carrying out my king's wishes. For what it is worth, Judal has had a reprieve for the last few days. I do hope _he_ has been behaving well." 

 

Aladdin can imagine Judal so clearly, as he’d been the night Aladdin had left, clinging and warm and anxious. “I hope so too. He...he’s been so different, the last several years,” he says earnestly. “I just--no matter what he did to you, I’m sure if you could just _see_ him now, you’d change your mind.”

 

Yunan's eyes lid. "And if that wasn't the case, and I decided he was better off dead?" 

 

Aladdin folds his arms. “Then I would try and stop you until I was dead.” Simple, really.

 

Yunan stops himself from saying that would be a very short battle indeed. Tiresome, all of this, and ahh, how he wants to just bury himself where he lies and think of Solomon's touch for hours instead after so, so long… 

 

"Go back to him, if you care so very much," he says with a dismissive wiggle of his fingers. "I will be along shortly. At some point." 

 

Aladdin’s hands clench into fists, and he exhales a long breath through his nose. “I can’t. It was hard for him to let me go, I can’t say that coming to see you was all for nothing.”

 

A crystalline blue stare levels solidly upon him. "My king has bid that I leave this place. You _will_ see me again." 

 

That has the ring of fate about it.

 

Slowly, Aladdin nods. “If that is how it has to be. Then...no offense, but I hope it’s a long time away.”

 

Yunan laughs at that. "I will still be watching him," he casually replies. "But for now, I will grant you that one request, little Magi, of not being quite so obvious." _Because you are my king's vessel, and I suppose I owe you that much._

 

Aladdin breathes out a long sigh, and bows deeply, the way he would do to one of his teachers who didn’t have a terribly impressive set of breasts that he just _had_ to stare at all the time. “Thank you. And for what it’s worth, I’ve wanted to meet you for a while. I didn’t want it to be like this, but thank you anyway.”

 

"And I wanted to meet you as well." It isn't a lie--meeting Solomon's chosen _was_ something he had planned on doing. The boy is better than most, at least, and Yunan begrudgingly allows his king that much leeway. "Just… mmm. Be forewarned that if he still does not improve, then mercy is not something I am so talented at."

 

“I understand. Thank you for the warning.” Aladdin stands, and pauses. “You know, Judal’s chosen king thought the same about him, once. That he wasn’t worth saving, or that there was nothing to save. Solomon gave him his life back for a reason.”

 

"Then hopefully," Yunan softly replies, "he will work hard to not so foolishly cast it away again."

 

~~

 

Alibaba has had better days.

 

Waking up and slipping into Morgiana's bed was _supposed_ to be a good start. Getting dragged off, thrown to that obnoxious water magician--that's enough to ruin his week, especially when he _knows_ he's not going to be able to beat him any time soon. _Well, I'll just have to try harder, then._

 

Never mind that Sinbad watches him like a hawk now, or Ja'far merely sighs at him over every little thing. It's hard to feel like he has an ally amongst any of the other eight generals, though Sharrkan still is one, especially when he begs the man for a spar to remind himself that he doesn't suck at outright swordplay. He _can_ hold his own in that. 

 

Drinks, afterwards, are a blessing, and drowning his sorrows in good beer almost makes up for his resounding failures as of late and over the past two years. 

 

God, he misses Aladdin, too. 

 

"I hate magicians." Alibaba slumps over the table, his head banging slowly into the wood. "Why do we need magicians? They're just… ugh. _Ugh_."

 

Sharrkan leans over, clinking his glass moodily against Alibaba’s. “Here’s to _that_ ,” he mutters. “Damn magicians always...man, they’ve got opinions about _everything_ , and that’s not fair. Don’t even let you hit them. Like that stupid _water_ they like so much.”

 

"For _real_ ," Alibaba bemoans, drawing his glass back to down it in one fell swoop. "It's mostly just the water magicians. All of them, every last one of them. I mean, _Aladdin's_ fine. Your cousin seems okay, too." 

 

Sharrkan grunts. “He’s all right for a Healer, I guess. But damn, I was hoping he’d be a better fighter. If he dies, I have to go home and be a prince, gross.” He refills his glass and Alibaba’s, glaring at it. “Why can’t we have beer magicians?”

 

"Being a prince is a lot of work," he admits, sighing as he presses his cheek to the table. "I dunno, but every single last water magician is a _jerk_. That one Sinbad threw me at today… ugh, to _hell_ with Sinbad, that wasn't fair at _all_."

 

Sharrkan frowns, reaching over to ruffle Alibaba’s hair. “What a bastard. Did he throw Yamu at you? Not that he _could_ , she’s _busy_ this week, or so she _says_ , yeah sure, we all see you hanging out at the Merchant’s Arms, you could at least tell me you just don’t want to _go_.”

 

"… She turned you down like _that?_ Really unfair, at least Mor tells me straight up when she doesn't wanna do something." Alibaba sighs heavily. "But it wasn't Yamu. I think she would've been easier. It was that guy that hangs around your cousin all the time… Ti… Tris…something, I don't know."

 

Sharrkan laughs, tossing back another glass. “Tristan, yeah. Is he actually good for something? I thought Sphintus just liked him because he’s pretty.” Yamuraiha is pretty, too. “And I bet he doesn’t pretend like he has _other plans_ when he doesn’t. Or maybe he does. All water magicians, man.”

 

"He's _vicious_ ," Alibaba declares, drinking heavily as he remembers how very quickly Tristan the Magician had shut him down. "Really, really fast, and _really good_ \--I couldn't even do a weapon equip in time to attack him before he already had _me_ , let alone a djinn equip!"

 

“ _Rude_ ,” Sharrkan mutters. He’d been sort of planning on challenging the two of them on one, but hell if that sounds like a good idea now. “You know if you can’t...I mean, you’re the best I ever trained. And you’ve got a djinn. No way I’m going to try him, no way.”

 

Alibaba groans. "Damn. I was _hoping_ you knew how to deal with someone like that. I mean… haven't you sparred Judal before? And lived?" 

 

“Well, _yeah_ ,” Sharrkan admits. “But we weren’t exactly fighting to the death. The only way-- _only_ way you can get one over on them is to watch Ja’far. Man, he’s got that distance on his weapons, that’s what you need. The _second_ the fight starts, even if they haven’t started anything yet, don’t even bother with equipping, just fucking stab them. Only way to go.” He pours another beer, starting to get pleasantly fuzzy on the details of his own defeats.

 

"… I think this one is too fast for that, though," Alibaba admits with a sigh, shoving his glass over to be topped off as well. "Hey. Do you think you could ask Ja'far to go at him at some point, so we can watch? I don't wanna ask because then he'll want to _teach me_ and he's… really scary…"

 

“Yeah, good idea.” Sharrkan fills up Alibaba’s glass, and messily tips his own against it. “You know how we’d handle something like that in Heliohapt?”

 

"Tell me," Alibaba pathetically replies as he takes a long gulp of his beer. "It has to be better than how it goes here." 

 

“Well, you know, we have tournaments too, just not like Laem. Like, no one is a fighter for a _living_ , you have jobs and stuff too, it’s just for fun and betting. Ha, that’s how my great-grandfather got the throne from his brother, true story. Anyway, if someone beats you up and you feel humiliated, you call them into the ring and throw your champion at them, and if _they_ get beaten _they_ get to call a champion. It pretty much keeps going, and everyone gets to see how they fight until someone finally kills them.”

 

"… That sounds really awesome," Alibaba breathes, stretching his arms out over the table as he sags forward. "Ha. _Ha_ , I'd love to see that little brat go up against Mor. Wow." 

 

Sharrkan slumps forward, running his fingertip over the rim of his glass. “Sometimes I miss home. Seeing Sphintus reminded me how much fun it could be sometimes. Everyone here is so _stuffy_.”

 

"There's a lot of pretty girls here, at least," Alibaba helpfully offers. "Are there lots in Heliohapt?" 

 

At that, Sharrkan nearly slides to the floor. “s’different. I mean yeah, if you like Heliohapt girls, but they’re all the same, man. Sindria has more variety, but...aw man, back home at least if you want to have a nice harem everyone thinks that’s great. Here they’d just look all weird at you. Plus at least at home they don’t get angry if you look at them, or if you totally _accidentally_ see them get changed.”

 

Alibaba reaches out a hand to sympathetically pat one of Sharrkan's. "The brothels here are _weird_ here, though. I mean, there's lots of pretty girls, but then there's always some oddball…" he trails off with a shudder. "Do they have nice boobs in Heliohapt? Is it true that they all walk around with them out all the time?"

 

Sharrkan waves a hand. “Oh yeah, man. It’s weird, that they’re all covered up here. My dad keeps teasing me that I’m gonna develop some kind of creepy fetish for boobs. Man, you should see the brothels in Heliohapt--I mean, most locals can’t afford them, but _wow_. Plus, you know, _my_ family, they had a subscription.”

 

"Ahhh, I wanna go sometime…" Alibaba whines, drowning his sorrows in another beer. Ah, he's lightheaded. It's nice, not having to _think_ so hard, though. "I hope some of them have boobs like Mor's. You know, not _too_ big… and not too squishy, but really bouncy and perky and oh _man_ , really sensitive," he sighs dreamily. "That, and her legs…"

 

Sharrkan wraps an arm around Alibaba’s shoulders. “I’ll take you to Heliohapt,” he promises. “It’ll be _great_. You could have her as your wife and still have a harem of the prettiest girls and boys you can find, as long as you’re rich.”

 

Alibaba's nose wrinkles. "But I can't. I've gotta rule Balbadd, you know? Also, not so much on the boys. Though… Do you ever just…" he trails off, dropping his voice. "Do you ever just kind of--look at Judal from a distance, and like… hold a hand up, so you only see from the waist down?" 

 

“That’s a _nice_ waist,” Sharrkan agrees, slumping over on his arm. “God, walking around with his belly showing like that, you know he wants it.”

 

"… His _butt_ , though," Alibaba adds. "And his legs just… kinda… keep going…" 

 

“Mm,” Sharrkan agrees, staring into space. “I wouldn’t mind hitting the sauna with that. You know, if he weren’t a damned _water magician_.”

 

"Wow, all of them are like that, aren't they?" is Alibaba's sudden realization. "Yamu… geez, _Yamu_. And Tristan, too." 

 

“Really nice asses,” Sharrkan agrees miserably. “I mean damn, if Sphintus hasn’t snatched Tristan up into his harem soon I’m gonna deny we’re related, how embarrassing.”

 

"Maybe he has and just doesn't wanna tell you," Alibaba suggests without lifting his head. Yeah, he's definitely woozy now. It feels good. "What'd you mean, anyway, about saunas?" 

 

“Hmm? Oh.” Sharrkan grins. “In Heliohapt if you survive the fights, or even just after a big workout, you go to the sauna with your opponents and blow off some steam. It’s a warrior thing. There’s a lot of customs and shit if you get into it with one of the old guard, but it’s fun if you’re just clowning around with your friends.”

 

"Oh." Alibaba lifts his head, tilting it to the side. "That sounds fun. I'm a warrior. So we should do that," he decides, banging a hand onto the table. "Right now! Even if we aren't in Heliohapt, we can have fun like we are!" 

 

Sharrkan raises his eyebrows. He’d never really thought of Alibaba as the kind of guy who would enjoy something like that...but what the hell? It’s been a long day, and goddamn water magicians at least don’t like saunas much. Besides, now that he’s looking for it he supposes Alibaba’s pretty enough. “Yeah, okay! Race you there! Gotta work up a good sweat first!” He grabs Alibaba’s hand, taking off with him down the street towards the palace sauna.

 

God, at least _Sharrkan_ is fun to be around in spite of everything. 

 

The saunas are empty this time of night, with most everyone either in town or in bed, and that's a relief and a half. All the better to melt away his sore muscles from earlier and think about how he's definitely going to crush that little welp of a magician to better prove his worth--and Sharrkan's, he's got one hell of a teacher after all--no matter what it takes. 

 

Being drunk is good, too. It takes away the last, lingering bit of his irritation, and by the time he's stripped to nothing but a towel, life is pretty damned good for the moment. "Ahhh, Sindria is good for something," he sighs out, eyes lidding. "Need these in Balbadd, before I go back home…" 

 

Sharrkan stretches out lazily, putting his feet up as he leans back against the sweet-smelling wood. “Mm, if you put them in I’ll come and visit you. It’s nice, right? To have a place where all you worry about is feeling good? Not stupid water magicians,” he can't help but add, still resentful.

 

"I'll put them in for sure," Alibaba sighs, sagging backwards as he shuts his eyes. "And you can be a guest of honor in my palace. You can bring Yamu, too, if you want. Maybe then she'll wanna go and do stuff with you. Have you ever managed to convince her to come here, or was she being… well, _typical?_ " 

 

Sharrkan stares at him, aghast. “I couldn’t invite Yamu to a bathhouse! You--god, you can’t have _women_ in a _sauna_ , it melts their brains! Everyone knows that!"

 

"Eh? It does?" Alibaba blinks at him, wide-eyed. "Is… is that a Heliohapt thing? Because I'm pretty sure I've seen girls go into saunas here before--"

 

“They’re _definitely_ not allowed in the saunas in Heliohapt. For their own good! Plus, you know, that’s guy time.” Sharrkan relaxes back with a sigh. “When you’ve got a wife and a harem, you need a place to go that’s just for men.” Not that he has either, yet, but he’s convinced of the principle.

 

"Ahh, I see. That sounds good, then," Alibaba sighs, leaning back again. "Okay. Then in Balbadd, no women in the saunas, either." Drunken decisions are the best decisions, clearly. "Though, god, seeing them in skimpy things… that's a pretty big trade-off."

 

“But you’re going to be the _king_ , right?” Sharrkan shrugs. “So make clothes illegal for women. Or just take a huge harem. Then you get to see the prettiest girls in _nothing_ all the time.” He nudges a shoulder against Alibaba’s, moving closer. “Not a bad life, being king, huh?”

 

"Mor would get mad if I did that, though; she likes clothes," Alibaba whines, shoving his shoulder back against Sharrkan's as he lets his head loll to the side. "God, a harem would be nice, though. Then if she's not in the mood or something, I could just… go roll around with them. What do _you_ do, when Yamu's being… uh… Yamu?" 

 

 _Think about the harem I’m gonna have one day._ “I dunno, depends. Spar with Masrur. Hit the sauna with Spartos sometimes, that’s always good fun. Get really drunk.” _Write her letters._

 

"… I was hoping you had some solution for making pretty girls come out of the woodwork and want to like… do stuff, I dunno." Alibaba sighs a long-suffering sigh. "Then again, brothels are so hit and miss. Aladdin and I used to get drunk together--well, I got really drunk, he's got a pretty high tolerance--and _god_ , that… I mean, don't _tell_ anyone, because I like girls and stuff, like really like girls and boobs and _girls_ \--but wow, that was the best handjob I ever had in my _life_." 

 

Sharrkan laughs, raking the hair back from his face, and tosses a small pitcher of water onto the hot stones, making them hiss and steam. “Men give the best handjobs. Everyone knows that.”

 

"… Really?" Alibaba's head tilts. "I've only ever done it with him. I mean, like I said, it was _really good_ , but…"

 

“Oh, yeah,” Sharrkan assures him, and moves over, sliding a hand under Alibaba’s towel. “I mean, maybe Aladdin’s especially talented, but it’s pretty common. Hey, you’ve got a nice one.”

 

Alibaba squeaks--no, doesn't squeak, he's a _guy_ and guys don't _squeak_ \--and squirms, attempting distance between them with a hand shoving at Sharrkan's shoulder. "H-hey! Isn't that a _little_ \--" He sucks in a breath. _Awkward_ , when his teacher's hands, big and all calloused from years of swordsmanship, feel _really good_ against his cock, and it's hard not to harden under the touch. "… _Forward?_ " 

 

Sharrkan blinks, confused. He cocks his head, hand still casually resting on Alibaba’s cock, and asks, “Why, what do they do in _Balbadd’s_ saunas?”

 

Alibaba swallows hard. "We don't… _have them_ , really; like I said, I need to build them. Or at least, if we did have them, I never went because I was so young and--um--" That awkward moment when he is torn between _do you really have to keep touching me_ and _oh my god if your hand is going to be there, at least do something with it_.

 

“Oh, is that all?” Sharrkan grins, fingers curling, and he strokes slowly down Alibaba’s cock, thumb rubbing over the head before sliding back up. “Well, you’re not that young now.”

 

At least that decision was made for him.

 

Alibaba can't _help_ but shudder, and the alcohol still buzzing pleasantly around in his head makes it very apparent that he should just roll with this because it's _going_ to happen. Yeah. He's okay with that. Sharrkan's hand is _really_ nice, especially when his legs splay and ugh, he can't _help_ but thrust up into it.

 

"… You were… ahh… kinda right--" Shit. More than 'kinda.' Alibaba sags back with a little ragged breath, eyes fluttering with the drag of Sharrkan's hand. "T-that's… really good." 

 

“Oh man, you should come here with Spartos some time,” Sharrkan says, stroking a little faster now. It’s good to see Alibaba finally _enjoying_ himself, when he tends to drag that dark cloud around with him everywhere. “I mean wow, talk about a natural.” He pulls the towel free, giving himself a better angle to work, watching the dark skin of his hand sliding up and down the pale flushed cock between Alibaba’s legs. “Really nice,” he says, admiring. “I bet the girls love that.”

 

"I--Mor seems to--" Alibaba breathlessly admits, flushing hot at the compliments that he _hardly_ expects. It's hard to imagine _Spartos_ , reserved, quiet Spartos, joining in with something like this, but in a way, that sort of makes his blood pump faster, his breath shortening with every stroke of Sharrkan's hand. His own fingers twitch, one hand clumsily fumbling its way down the hard expanse of Sharrkan's abdomen before hesitating, curling against his hip. "I've never… I mean, with Aladdin--he just sort of…" He laughs shakily, breath hitching hard. "He's really good… at taking control of things." 

 

“Yeah, he seems like the type,” Sharrkan agrees, and easily takes off his own towel, firmly taking Alibaba’s hand and setting it on his own cock. “Don’t worry, just--I mean, you touch your own all the time, right? Just like that, nothing special, I’m not expecting you to be a world-class prostitute.” He nudges Alibaba’s shoulder with his own, grinning. “It’s just guy stuff, no big deal.”

 

Right.

 

Guy stuff.

 

 _Pretty sure this isn't just guy stuff_ , Alibaba desperately thinks, but his mind effectively clicks off when his fingers tentatively drag along the length of Sharrkan's cock. He's _bigger_ , definitely thicker, but that makes sense, because Sharrkan's a bigger guy than he is everywhere else, too. It feels nice in his hand besides, and he sucks in a sharp breath as his fingers curl around it, squeezing as he strokes upward and feels it jump and pulse against the palm of his hand. It shouldn't make _him_ as hard as it does, but he finds himself biting his lip all the same, his next inhale a shuddery, ragged little breath through his nose. 

 

Sharrkan closes his eyes, sighing as he leans his head back against the wall. He strokes slowly, speeding up a bit, twisting and squeezing his hand as it gets slicker and slicker. “Mmm, you’re not bad at that. You know, Yamu let me fuck her boobs once, when she was on her period. All slippery and soft and she squeezed them around my cock, wow.”

 

 _That_ image makes Alibaba groan, twisting to better rut his hips up into Sharrkan's grasp. "N…not sure Morgiana has enough boobs for that, but…" His fingers tighten, and he shifts closer, letting his own head loll forward to press his forehead into Sharrkan's shoulder as his hand drags up the length of the other man's cock, thumb rubbing over the slick, dripping head of it before sliding back down. "Mor's thighs… you wouldn't think they'd be as soft as they are, b-but… just waking up, and sliding between them--god," he shudders. 

 

Sharrkan’s hips twitch up, and his eyes squeeze shut, hand working faster and faster on Alibaba’s cock. “Really nice,” he mutters. “She’s got really, _really_ nice thighs--does she let you do her in the ass? Yamu won’t, but there’s this girl back in Heliohapt, man, she’s _nuts_ for it. Really--god, it’s so tight, and you don’t have to worry about babies--and Yamu’s got...god, a really, _really_ nice ass…”

 

"Haven't asked," Alibaba says on a rush of breath, though the _image_ of even sliding his cock _against_ that round, firm flesh is enough to make him gasp and lurch up. He's sure he's making all sorts of really pathetic noises, his breath too fast and ragged as his hips buck up into Sharrkan's grasp, but there's no _helping it_ when it feels so good, and he bites his lip hard to keep from moaning all too much like a _girl_ when he comes, spilling over Sharrkan's fist with his hips still desperately working upwards, his own fingers shaky and shivery as they squeeze tight about the other man's cock.

 

Sharrkan’s eyelids flutter--ah, god, Alibaba squeezes _tight_ when he comes, and that’s just a little too tight to be good and shit, he kind of likes it anyway. It sort of reminds him of Yamu, the way she’d glare and do it wrong on purpose, except that Alibaba’s not really _bad_ at it, his hand is nice, and calloused, and warm, and Sharrkan comes with a groan, toes curling as he thrusts his hips up a few times into that firm grip. 

 

He opens his eyes with a lazy, replete grin, wiping his hand off on his towel, then wiping up his thighs. “Thanks, that _really_ helped. You feel any less stressed?”

 

"… Little bit," Alibaba manages a few seconds later, sagging forward with a long, heavy groan. "God. Just wanna go home," he half-whines into Sharrkan's neck. " _Everyone_ here hates me, 'cept for you. Sinbad… Sinbad thinks I'm an idiot, and Ja'far still treats me like a little kid and _ugh_ , I bet they're too damn stuffy to go to the _sauna_." 

 

“They sure won’t come with me,” Sharrkan confirms, shaking his head. “Oh, neither will Masrur...anymore. But don’t let them get you down, they treat everyone like idiots. It’s their way of making sure you keep learning instead of thinking you’re the scariest man on the planet just because you were a big shot in your little backwater.”

 

"I haaaate it. Just wanna go home with Mor and Aladdin and you know, I had a Magi _way_ before Sinbad so why's he think he's the big shot, huh?" Alibaba huffs, butting his head against Sharrkan's shoulder. "You. Come with me. You can be my general." 

 

Sharrkan raises his eyebrows, amused. “Is it really appropriate for your teacher to work for you?”

 

"I'll make a law," Alibaba insists, slapping a hand against Sharrkan's chest. "C'mon. Say you'll do it." 

 

Sharrkan laughs, ruffling Alibaba’s hair. “Tell you what. When you take Balbadd over and have an army you need me to train, come get me. I’ll come be your general.”

 

"Yeah. Yeah, that's good," Alibaba sighs. "I'll have a really good army if you come and train them up. But first, we gotta figure out how to make magicians stop being so… so _annoying_."

 

Sharrkan slaps him on the back good-naturedly, standing with a stretch. “That’s a king’s job. I’d just be teaching how to hit things with swords without hitting each other. Very underrated skill.”

 

"I don't underrate it. Wish everything was just swords." Alibaba lists to the side, flopping over. "Swords, and nice butts." 

 

“That should be the motto of your army!” It’s possible Sharrkan is a little drunk too. “Swords and nice butts! Oh, you’ll need someone to design a really nice uniform for them.”

 

"Yeah. Yeah, all that, once my country's back in order again," he sighs happily. "Swords and butts that look nice in really nice uniforms." He can dream, after all. 

 

“Hey.” Sharrkan nudges Alibaba with a bare toe. “You can’t fall asleep in here. It’ll suck all the water out of your body and you’ll die.”

 

"Carry me, I'm already dead." 

 

Sharrkan hefts Alibaba up onto his shoulder with a grunt, carrying him out of the sauna. “No, but you will be if your girlfriend sees this. Doesn’t she have the market cornered on carrying you around like a princess?”

 

"She likes it," Alibaba sighs out, flopping comfortably over Sharrkan's shoulder. "S'okay, she's never dropped me when it wasn't on purpose." 

 

“At least she’s not a water magician. Then she’d probably...I dunno, drop you then _drown_ you.”

 

"Did Yamu do that or something? Really rude."

 

“I should probably stop going after her,” Sharrkan admits. “She’s just so….ugh.”

 

"No!" Alibaba emphatically says, giving Sharrkan's back a slap. "You're not allowed to give up! Women… women are _weird_ , sometimes you get Elizabeths and Margarets and then you get Mors and Yamus other times and so you can't… can't give up you just…" Ah, he's dizzy.

 

Somehow, that’s inspirational. Somehow. Sort of. In a way.

 

“Yeah. Okay. Hey, is this your room? Don’t die, drink some water, I don’t want to know what would happen to Balbadd if you died.”

 

"Yeah. It'd die. Really die, and Aladdin would be sad. He's always mad at me." Bed is good. Alibaba groans. "I'll keep you, though," he declares as his vision sort of sleepily fade out of focus. "Even if I die." 

 

 

~~

 

Scheherezade doesn’t like it when things are untidy.

 

It’s one of the few things she’d agreed with that rogue in Sindria about--those creatures from Za’Abaddon, or whatever they call themselves down south, Al something, are tipping the world, and that leaves behind all sorts of untidiness. It had started years ago, even if they’d only noticed it with Duban’s death.

 

Things are untidy now even in Laem, their spies slipping past her sight no matter where she turns her eyes, no matter how many she has evicted or killed. It’s enough to drive her _mad_.

 

It’s certainly enough to drive her to the solarium. The Empress has a key, and Mu has a secret knock, but apart from that, it’s her place and hers alone, and she takes to staring at the sky for a week straight.

 

_What is coming?_

 

It has been a long, _long_ time since Yunan has traveled. 

 

Longer still, since he has visited Laem, and his touch is an apologetic, gentle one when he slips pasts Scheherazade's defenses. Better not to rile the girl up too much--she _does_ stress easily, and he'd like his visit to at least be a marginally pleasant one, no matter how it will be somewhat of a surprise. 

 

Her rukh is a diamond amongst coal, and even in the dim of approaching night, she's easy to find. Sneaking up on her is never a wise decision, even if it's a large, high-placed window that he drifts through, legs thrown cross-legged over one side of his staff. "The night sky doesn't change so much," he calls down with a smile. "Though if you are so bored as to watch the stars slowly flicker out, I should do something about that."

 

Within a second of that touch to her defenses, Scheherezade knows it’s _him_ , and her pale eyes go wide, mouth parting in a stunned, unexpected smile. “Yunan!” 

 

One bare foot taps the ground, and she rises into the air, meeting him halfway to the ground and wrapping her arms around his neck. “Oh, you’re _lucky_ I was up here, if you’d come last week I’d have blasted you out of the sky, it’s good to _see_ you!”

 

"Ah, that's rude, very rude," he laughs, looping an arm around her to squeeze her tight once his feet hit the ground, his staff flipping up into his other hand. "You should never be so hasty, not with a face that pretty." Releasing her, Yunan slowly smiles, a thumb coming to brush over her cheek. "It has been some time, Zadi. I am glad to see you are well." 

 

Scheherezade leans into his touch, smiling, enjoying the company already of the only man to make her smile like this besides Mu. “And I, you. I worry about you, living alone in a hole. And unless I’m very mistaken, I felt you in the earthquakes last month.”

 

Oops. He probably should have sent word prior to now, but there's something to be said about it slipping his mind… "Ahhh, yes, that was me… My apologies, if it put you on edge." Yunan tilts his head, his smile a bit tight. "It seems as though Aladdin felt the need to pay me a visit. That was the annoying part; the rest was good, though."

 

“I haven’t heard you call anything good for decades.” Her lips curve up, and she asks, “I don’t suppose that means you’ll take up my offer to sponsor a king closer to Laem? I miss your company.” _Both of you_ , she wants to say, nearly says.

 

"Oh," Yunan says with a wave of his hand. "Absolutely not. There is still not a king anywhere _close_ to entertaining enough, you know." That is his excuse, at any rate, and one he will stick to. "And at any rate," he adds, expression softening with a little sigh, "it would be _terribly_ remiss of me, to choose another when Solomon has so recently come to me." 

 

“Come to you?”

 

Scheherezade’s eyes sharpen, and she pulls him down to sit on the grass with her, cross-legged and curious. She searches his face for any hint of madness, but sees no more than she had in years past, no matter the long lonely life in a hole. “Have you raised him? I know you told me years ago you’d failed to do so, but…”

 

"Nothing like that, though I wish I could," is Yunan's sigh as he folds his legs underneath himself, pulling his hat off as he leans back onto one hand contemplatively. "That little Magi… he is Solomon's vessel, though I'm sure you have realized this. A breath of my magoi, and well… mmn, it is good I have never chosen another," he laughs. "He was still able to draw upon me as he did in the past, and heartily. I slept for a week after Aladdin left, I think." 

 

“Slept for a week?” Scheherezade hides a giggle behind her hand. “How long was he--no, don’t answer that, I won’t be so crude as to ask something of the sort.” No matter how much she wants to know. It’s _nice_ to see Yunan smiling like that again. “I’d suspected something of the sort about the boy, though more from what I’ve heard about him and his supposed wisdom than from any impression upon meeting him. Then again, I only know Solomon from what I’ve heard from you.”

 

"Not long enough," Yunan answers the unspoken question with an exhale that is far more pining than anything else. "Ahh, no matter. It was good just to see him again, after so long. And by the rukh's will, you may finally be able to meet him after all." His smile is wry. "One way or another, I think… Solomon has bid me to move once more, so that he may eventually rise again." 

 

 _That_ sends a chill up Scheherezade’s spine. “Rise again?” She swallows hard. Solomon had united all the lands of the world, brought them together under a single banner, abolished war and instituted a great age of learning upon the world.

 

Which sounds lovely, but she’s always wondered about the countries that had existed before his reign, and their kings. 

 

_And my Empress._

 

“When? How?”

 

A languid shrug follows. "I hardly know when," he answers with a smile. "The 'how'… mm. A proper gathering of kings, he said, of the Magi of this era and their chosen. Something about a contest… ahh, it's all very vague, he usually was," Yunan says with a dismissive wave of his hand. "It'll come to me, as things go along." 

 

And if that isn’t exactly why Scheherezade sometimes finds her old teacher _infuriating_ …

 

“You will warn me if you can, won’t you?” she urges, tugging on one of his hands. Odd, how being with him always makes her feel like a girl again, just come into her power. “You know I’ll do whatever I can to protect Laem, no matter what happens. It is my sacred charge.”

 

"You will be the first to know," Yunan fondly reassures her, reversing their grip to give her hand a gentle squeeze. "In the meantime, I was thinking of taking a trip." 

 

She sighs, shaking her head at him, extricating her hand. “Not like that, you aren’t. Let me at least give you some decent clothes and….fix your hair, or braid it--I’ll do something with it. You’ll stay a few days at least?”

 

"But it _is_ braided." Messily, as per usual, and thrown over one shoulder with little care. "You know I would normally love to accept your hospitality, but it is really quite pressing that I see to this… oh, you should come with me! When is the last time you left Laem?" 

 

Scheherezade has to consider for a moment. “When you and Duban dragged me to that flower festival in the East. That was only...oh, I suppose sixty, fifty years ago?” Her smile turns a bit guilty. “I do get caught up in my work. But no, I’d love to, but I’m having some difficulties of my own at the moment. My first magician has gone truant.”

 

"… You mean that boy of yours?" Yunan tries not to make a face. "Well, it _is_ best if you keep such a child under your watchful gaze. We can find him, while we are out and about." 

 

“He’s always been so well-behaved before...hey, you find him for me,” she implores, tugging on his braid, fingers itching with the desire to rebraid it. “You were always so much better at distance seeing than I was.”

 

"Probably because you are so very fixated on this country," Yunan lowly chides, though it takes little more than that in the way of convincing as he simply lays a hand atop Scheherazade's head. A child born of a Magi is a terribly easy thing to find, even easier when his mother is right before him with an already distinct signature, and his eyes blaze, the whirlwind rush of his rukh only needed for the sparsest of moments.

 

"Oh," he breathes, sinking back as his hand slides away. "Very convenient." 

 

A lurch of relief goes through Scheherezade. She’d known that he was _probably_ not dead, but he’d learned so much better to conceal himself from her sight, and without hearing from him to be sure… “Where is he? What’s convenient? Oh, when I get my _hands_ on him…”

 

"You can have fun with him," Yunan mirthfully says as he makes to rise, offering her his hand, "while I do the same with Sindria's Magi. The weather is rather nice there this time of year, or so I have heard." 

 

“Sindria? _Sindria_?”

 

Scheherezade’s eyes flash, and she stands, grabbing his hand. “I’ll braid your hair on the way.”

 

"It's already braided," is the patient reply, and a flick of his wrist brings his staff to hover sideways before he leaps upon it, dragging her up with him. "I travel fast, Zadi, lest you forget!"

 

She grabs her own staff, but hops up behind Yunan anyway, feeling more reckless than she has in decades. “I’ll hold on tight!”


	4. Chapter 4

 

Judal knows where Sinbad keeps the wine.

 

There's a cabinet, plus whatever he hides under the bed from Ja'far. Not really _hidden_ , but Sinbad thinks it is, and that's amusing when Ja'far starts on a prohibition tirade. 

 

Judal doesn't care either way, but it does seem to taste better when he's snatching it up without permission. 

 

He's never really held his wine well, especially not Sindrian wine, which makes him dizzy and sort of floaty-feeling only a few swallows in. Nearly a full jug later, and he's sprawled out over Sinbad's bed, slowly rolling to the side to wrap himself up in a blanket, trying very, very hard not to think about how Aladdin isn't here and how _he_ was always fun to drink with, because he just got a bit tipsy and really touchy-feely and ahh, his hands were good even when he was just sort of grabby…

 

Judal rolls entirely off the bed with a solid thump, thoroughly encased in enough blankets to the point that only his head really sticks out (and maybe a toe). Yeah. The floor is good. He'll just stay here and try not to cry. 

 

It’s well past dark when Sinbad finally makes it back to his rooms, head aching from forms he’d filled out long past the time it had stopped being interesting, body pleasantly twinging from the shirtless run he’d taken on the beach (just to keep morale up among the people). No sooner had he returned to the palace than he’d _gotten_ another list of things to do--oversee tariff negotiations, meet with a delegate, tell Sharrkan _again_ that if he’s going to use the sauna like that he absolutely _must_ use his own towels and remove them afterwards--and the headache builds until all he wants to do is _drink_.

 

And maybe roll around with Judal, too. That would be a relief.

 

He pushes open the door, raising an eyebrow at the amorphic blob on the floor. “Did you roll yourself out of bed again? And is that Sindrian wine I smell?”

 

"I'm a worm," Judal lazily greets, rolling slowly to the side and only tightening the noose of blankets. "I don't need legs."

 

Sinbad sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Did you leave me any wine, worm? I’ve had a long day.”

 

Judal thinks he nods. Probably, he just rolls again before sort of scooting his knees up to push himself along on the floor like a caterpillar. "Legs," he matter-of-factly says, "are for people with Aladdins. I'm just… just gonna lie here." He gives up on the caterpillar scooting promptly. "No legs."

 

“You,” Sinbad informs him, reaching under the bed for one of the less obvious hidden jugs, pulling the cork out with his teeth and taking a long swig, “have got it _bad_ for that kid. Come on, you’re both going to live for hundreds of years, you should be able to be apart for a few months without bringing hurricanes every other day.”

 

"Nooo," is the whine to follow, and Judal rolls until he manages to flop onto his back in a heap. "No, I don't _want_ to. I _like_ him. A lot. Like… you know. Like him." 

 

Sinbad spares him a sour look, and takes another swig of wine. “If you are talking about _Ja’far_ , I have no problem being away from him for a few months, or even a year. I’ve done it before. You’ve just been reading too many of those awful fanatic-novels about us.”

 

The sigh heaved from Judal's chest is all-mighty. "But you make _faces_ at him. Aladdin makes faces at _me_." 

 

Sinbad takes a much, much longer swig. “You have some weird idea in your head that I don’t love you?”

 

"It's not the saaame," is the whine to follow. "It's _not_. I love you a lot. A _lot._ A whole lot." Judal's lip juts in a deep pout. "But you don't make faces at me, even after all this time. Not _those_ faces, anyway. It gets really…" He trails off, and rolls to the side, attempting to make himself into a headless worm next. "…lonely." 

 

Sinbad sighs, putting down the jug and simply picking Judal up off the floor, blanket roll and all. He settles onto the bed, the Magi in his lap, attempting to peel the layers down around his face. “I think,” he says carefully, “I know the problem you’re having. I bet most of the time you see me making those faces it’s at Ja’far’s back, right?”

 

"… Yeah," Judal slowly allows, squirming a little as he hunches further down into the blankets. "Let me be a worm," he crossly adds. 

 

“Just one more second. Did it ever occur to you,” Sinbad asks, trying to turn Judal’s face to look up at him, “that I might make the same ones behind your back?”

 

His brow furrows. "… But then I wouldn't see them, so what's the point? That'd be mean, I wanna see them." 

 

“I don’t make them on _purpose_. They just sort of...happen,” Sinbad explains helplessly. “That’s the best I can explain something I don’t even think I’m _doing_. I--I need more wine.”

 

"Ughh, you're the worst, how does anyone love you," Judal bemoans, sprawling himself over Sinbad's lap with a flop of his legs. "Let me go back to being a worm, I quiiiit."

 

Sinbad looks down, then drains the rest of the jug. “Fine.” 

 

He grabs the other blanket from the bed, and rolls up to lay half on Judal, butting his head down. “Then I quit too. We can rule a kingdom of worms.”

 

"Worm kingdom," Judal hazily agrees, and rolls himself to the side, making his way back to the edge of the bed. "Worm palace, worm beds. Worm--" Ah. That's the end of the bed. "Worm peaches. No. No worm peaches. I bit into a peach with a worm once, really gross."

 

“Disgusting. Any peach with a worm in it shall be executed. So says the worm king.”

 

A blob of blankets that is most likely Judal's legs lifts up before thumping back down in approval. "You're… you're a good king. Worm magi approves. I'll keep you. Make worm faces though. Just a few."

 

Sinbad twists around to face Judal, with more difficulty than he’d anticipated. “It’s _not_ easy to move like this, how do you manage?” he grumbles, then butts his head against Judal’s shoulder, looking up with a soft, fond smile.

 

"… Worm practice," Judal very seriously answers, even though his breath hitches a little bit and he can't help but wriggle closer to butt his head back against Sinbad's. "That was a good face." 

 

“Face practice,” Sinbad answers, and leans forward to place a soft bite to Judal’s nose. “I’ll make sure to let you see them more often. It’s just because I love sitting you on my lap and holding you from behind so much.”

 

"Oh." It's a good answer, and Judal slinks down a bit into the blankets, eyes lidding. "You could've said that before. Stupid king." 

 

“At least I have a pretty Magi.” For a drunken, tired man, Sinbad is rather proud of himself for actually handling the situation, at least somewhat. “If there’s one thing a hurricane’s good for, it keeps me inside with you.”

 

"Sorry." And he is, he really is, it's just… "Didn't mean to," Judal mumbles, wriggling himself closer again. "It keeps happening. Sorry. Really sorry."

 

A thought occurs to Sinbad and ah, he’s just sorry he hadn’t thought of it sooner. “No, no, not for my sake. I like to stay inside with you, you know that.” He yawns, burying his face in Judal’s side. “I just worry that any other Magi trying to fly to Sindria would have difficulty.”

 

Distress immediately cuts over Judal's face. "Done being a worm," he mumbles, attempting to squirm his way free of his blankets. "Need to go stop hurricanes." 

 

Sinbad unrolls himself, then catches one side of Judal’s blankets, twisting him free. “There you are. I’m sure there’s no hurry, he’s a great flier…”

 

"No, I'm going." Admittedly, Judal's roll away from Sinbad is less than graceful, as is his climb to his feet and subsequent grab for his magic carpet. Drinking is dumb, he thinks. Really dumb. Why did he feel the need to do that? "Stay here," he orders, "and be a good worm." 

 

“As my worm magi commands,” Sinbad says with a shrug, and promptly collapses down onto the bed. Ah, it’s been a long day.

 

Really, Judal should know better than to expect to actually _find_ Aladdin on the wake of the storm, but that's the alcohol's expectations, and terribly difficult to ignore.

 

Wind-tousled and annoyed, Judal lingers out over the ocean for far longer than strictly necessary, sighing as he eventually bids the slowly calming seas a farewell. If Aladdin _had_ stopped by, the hurricane might have driven him away, and it might be even longer still by the time the man turns around and comes back… 

 

Ugh.

 

Back to being a bloody _worm_ , he supposes. At least his expectations are much, much lower. 

 

Sinbad extends a hand. It’s impossible to be upset or annoyed with Judal when he looks so _sad_ , even if he had been inclined to after all the weather. “Come back to bed. We can make like real worms and eat our way through a barrel of peaches.”

 

Any other time, and he would jump at the offer. "… Maybe later," Judal murmurs, and his chin ends up propped onto the windowsill as he stares out from it longingly. _I know it hasn't been that long yet, but I wish you'd come home already_. 

 

“Haven’t you ever heard that a watched pot never boils?” Sinbad asks gently. “If you distract yourself, the time will go much faster. That’s how I get through my paperwork without Ja’far murdering me.”

 

"… But what if he shows up and I'm not paying attention when he does?" 

 

“You know Aladdin. Do you really think he’d just turn around and leave again?” Sinbad wraps his arms around Judal from behind, tugging him away from the window. “Come on, let me distract you.”

 

Judal's gaze lingers sadly out from the window, even as he slowly lets himself be pulled away. "If he turns around and leaves again," he says, frowning, "I'm blaming you."

 

“That’s fair. Here, you’re cold already,” Sinbad murmurs, the closest he comes to gently chiding outside of being with Ja’far. He grabs a blanket, wrapping Judal up in it, tucking in his hair. “Feel better yet?”

 

From the window, a light male tenor says, “I can come back, if you’re busy.”

 

Judal turns too-fast, eyes wide and breath catching. For a moment, he thinks himself hallucinating, a little _too_ desperate to see him, but there's simply no mistaking the familiar flutter of that rukh, and in an instant he pounces, quite nearly launching Aladdin from the window again with the force of which Judal suddenly _clings_ to the other man's neck.

 

"You're back, you're _back_ \--" An excited rush of breath follows. "Did the storm keep you? I'm really sorry if it did, I didn't mean to make it in the first place, everything's just so weird lately and--and I _missed you_ \--" 

 

Aladdin laughs, dangling cheerfully out of the window, hands around Judal’s waist and clinging tightly, the force of it having nothing to do with the fact that he’s hanging out a window. “It’s fine, it’s _fine!_ ” Good, Judal’s rukh hasn’t done anything awful like turning all black, and it still dances happily at the sight of him, mingling with his own and swirling around them, making him shiver. He turns his head, kissing the skin just behind Judal’s ear, murmuring, “Like a hurricane could keep me from you.”

 

 _That_ makes his pulse flutter, and Judal wriggles his way closer, sighing as he buries his face into Aladdin's neck. "He hasn't been watching for days. Did you do something? Did you tell him to stop? I--" He pauses, suddenly a little sheepish, and makes to tug Aladdin inside less they continue rolling around in Sinbad's windowsill. "Sorry," he offers to Sinbad a little guiltily. "We'll leave. Sorry I drank so much of your wine." 

 

Sinbad should probably be more jealous. He’s certain he should, because Aladdin is clinging to his Magi, and Judal is clinging back and rubbing his face all over the other man like an excited, affectionate cat, and they’ve both forgotten he even exists, and that’s the kind of thing _most_ men would be upset about.

 

_They look so happy together._

 

It isn’t as though Judal can leave him, after all. That’s part and parcel with being his Magi. He smiles, looking at the almost nervous way the younger men grab onto each other, and shrugs. Ah, maybe the alcohol is helping a _little_. “If anything, I should be the one to leave. The two of you seem quite content.”

 

“Sorry,” Aladdin starts, but Sinbad waves a hand.

 

“If you can cheer him up, you’re welcome to roll around together in any room of my Palace--nay, anywhere in Sindria.” He locks eyes with Aladdin, that clear blue stare always seeming to look right through him, and for once doesn’t look away. “You keep him happy, yeah?”

 

"He _does_ , you don't have to tell him that," Judal grumbles, and he buries his face forward and into Aladdin's neck, fingers winding around his braid tightly. "You do, too," he adds, sighing. "We can be worms again later. Hey, Aladdin, do you want to be part of the worm kingdom?" 

 

“Sure,” Aladdin chirps, climbing in through the window, giving Sinbad a nod of thanks and a grateful smile before tugging Judal through the room and out, towards the suite that had become _theirs_ over the months he’d lived in Sindria. “Do I have to wear anything special?”

 

"Nope, just lots of blankets," Judal happily replies, a last wave over his shoulder spared toward Sinbad before he eagerly follows at Aladdin's heels. "Really, really missed you," he sighs, burying his face into the back of Aladdin's shoulder. "I hate it when you're gone. Don't leave again, or at least take me with you."

 

“It’s not like I _wanted_ to go,” Aladdin protests. “You make it sound like I wanted to leave you alone!” He turns, uncaring that they’re still in the hallway, and presses Judal up against the wall, kissing him with all the hunger of a hundred lonely nights, hands tangled in his hair, lips parted, mouth hot and _needing_.

 

Judal opens his mouth to reply, and when he finds himself kissed, it all dies on his lips, an eager, throaty little groan welling up instead. He lurches up, grasping for Aladdin's hair, yanking him down and against him as he sinks back into the wall, and god, he should probably feel some shame in how quickly his body heats up, but there's absolutely _nothing_ for it. 

 

"Make up for it anyway," he pleads, breathless as he stretches up, nipping, sucking on Aladdin's lower lip. "Missed you too much." 

 

“Missed you too,” Aladdin murmurs against Judal’s lips, pinning Judal against the wall with his own weight, greedily drinking in the smell, the taste of him. _Missed you so much I flew through a hurricane and two sandstorms. Missed you so much I stared up at the sky at night wondering if the stars could see you._

 

He fists a hand in Judal’s clothes, tugging him urgently down the hall, unable to stop kissing him even for long enough to properly walk. He’s not even sure he’s touching the ground anymore, magoi surging as he groans, “I’ll make it up to you. Every minute of it.”

 

That's a promise if he's ever heard one, and Aladdin _is_ very good about keeping promises.

 

His back hits the bedroom door first, hand fumbling to open it before he stumbles inside, the bed next and ahh, that's nice, to sink back down into the mattress with Aladdin's weight over him. Judal arches his back like a cat, hands twisting and tangling up into Aladdin's hair as his mouth fastens to the side of his neck for a hard, sucking bite, all too aware that the splay of his legs is probably more akin to a harlot than anything else, but he doesn't _care_. "Need you, really need you," he mumbles, panting too-hot and too-fast as his hips just up with an insistent wriggle. "It _hurts_." 

 

Aladdin makes a disapproving little noise in his throat, eyes alight with delight at just being _home_ again, being with Judal again, of feeling him twisty and wriggly and eager underneath the spread of his legs. He kneels on the bed, hands running up and down Judal’s body, as if it had been years, as if he’d forgotten everything. “Where does it hurt?” he asks, in between needy little kisses, as his fingers slide back to tug free the tie at the end of Judal’s hair. “Show me where, every single place.”

 

"All of it," is the little whine to escape Judal's throat, " _everything_." 

 

Aladdin's fingers feel good, threading up into his hair, and Judal shudders, his hips rocking up in an eager, wiggling little grind, his cock already so hard as it presses into the jut of one, lean hip that his mouth falls open and he can't _breathe_. "Really need you _in_ me," he whispers, shuddering with the words as his body clenches tight at the very thought. "Please, _please_ don't tease me today."

 

A single hard, skillful yank, and the rest of Judal’s clothes hit the floor, Aladdin already grabbing for the pot of oil with his other hand. “You’ve waited long enough,” he agrees, slicking himself from root to tip with a slow, hissing exhale. “And I can’t wait to tease you today anyway.”

 

He hoists Judal’s legs up over his arms, leaning down to kiss the other man thoroughly, eyes closed as he wraps a hand around his cock, wasting no time, going too fast, needing so much that it’s still not fast enough when he slides inside in one long, smooth thrust.

 

“Like coming home,” he whispers.

 

Judal's chest heaves in something like a sob, his legs trembling,quivering as they pliantly fall open, his body surrendering with a last, desperate lurch. It's too much, too fast, exactly what he _wanted_ , and his eyes roll into the back of his head as he tries to squirm his way down, face flushed hot and mind unable to stop thinking about how _good_ it feels, everything so slick and hot and tense inside of him, Aladdin's cock so deeply in him that he can't _breathe_ without feeling him throb. 

 

"R… really good," he manages to rasp, his hands pawing at Aladdin's back, nails weakly scraping. "Missed you. Missed you so much, no one else feels like you--"

 

A thousand things come to Aladdin’s mind to say, to tease Judal the way he loves, to flirt, to make him gasp and shudder, but he’s already _doing_ that, doing it plenty, and Aladdin likes looking at him more anyway. “Love the faces you make,” he whispers, the muscles in his legs flexing as he slides deeply in with each thrust, shivering at the tight, hot clench of him. “No one makes faces like you.”

 

Ah, _god_.

 

Judal groans, breathless and ragged and _lost_ , and he wriggles his way upward with a shuddery little sigh, mewling as his back arches, as he presses _down_ into every thrust and his world narrows to how Aladdin's cock feels. His brow knits, hips twitching upward as his own cock grinds hard against Aladdin's stomach, and Judal bites into his lower lip, his hands dragging down to Aladdin's waist to grab and _tug_ on him. "Harder," he begs. "Hold me down, take me harder, make me _yours--_ " _All over again, a dozen times over._

 

Aladdin grabs Judal’s wrists, pinning them over his head with bruising force, turning his head to bite and suck--mostly bite--at Judal’s neck. “You want everyone to see tomorrow?” he asks, speeding up his thrusts, thighs clenching as his hips slap against Judal’s with every quick, hard, deep thrust. “They’re--they’re all gonna say, oh, that Magi, s-someone made love to him _really hard_ last night--”

 

He sucks on Judal’s ear, voice a low rasp as he murmurs, “If I let you leave the bed at all tomorrow.”

 

Judal's breath stutters, catches hard in his throat, and it's all he can do to rut up as his legs fall open even wider, his thighs twitching and quivering as he tries to plant his heels into the bed to better arch up. It's impossible, with how hard he shakes, with how he can't _think_ past how good it feels with Aladdin's cock pressed so deep inside of him that it _hurts_ and his body squeezes and shudders in protest and that just makes it _better_ \--

 

"D…don't let me leave," he groans, his head lolling back, eyes fluttering helplessly. "Just… just keep me here like this, hold me down and fuck me until I can't--" _Think breathe move anything--_

 

It's with a sob that he bucks up, a last, aching slide of his cock against Aladdin's stomach undoing him, and he spills with a ragged, desperate sound, the shivery jolts and spasms making Judal so, so sure that there is _nothing_ better than this. 

 

Less than a second after the hot splatter of Judal’s release hits his stomach, Aladdin groans, hands clenching on Judal’s wrist and waist, and he buries his face into Judal’s shoulder, panting out hard, ragged breaths as he comes, a few last uneven thrusts all he can manage. “Neither of us,” he breathes, gulping for air as he nuzzles into Judal’s hair, “are going _anywhere_ for a _while_.”

 

Judal moans brokenly, his hips rocking in a slow, mindless little grind, _savoring_ that over-full, slick feeling of having Aladdin still inside of him after he's come. "Really good," he whispers, butting his head up to bury his face into one lean shoulder. "Don't leave again, I don't like it." 

 

“I left for _you_ , you know,” Aladdin reminds him, lips brushing kiss after kiss along Judal’s neck. “It’s been better without the eyes, right? He _promised_.”

 

"Don't care, still don't want you to leave again," Judal grumpily replies, and it's with a little shove that he rolls them over, shivering as he wriggles down with Aladdin still inside of him. "'s a lot better," he agrees, stretching down to nuzzle and mouth at Aladdin's neck, unable to stop himself from nibbling. "Still doesn't mean you're allowed to go places without me." 

 

Aladdin’s lips spread in a lazy grin, hands coming down to rest easily on Judal’s hips. “Don’t want to go anywhere without you,” he says honestly. “Next time I go somewhere I’ll just toss you over my shoulder on the way, okay?”

 

Judal immediately pouts, even as his hands slide up Aladdin's chest, nails scraping over long, lean muscles as he squirms and shifts atop him. "I can go with you without being carried. If you're gonna do it," he adds on a sigh, tipping his head back with a long, shuddery breath, "at least carry me like a princess or something." 

 

Aladdin laughs, leaning up to nibble at all that exposed flesh, luxuriating in the taste of Judal’s skin after so long without. “And here I thought you’d like it if I threw you over my shoulder like a captured bride. You don’t want me to steal you away?”

 

"… Well, when you put it like that…" Being kidnapped _does_ sound fun. Eyes fluttering, Judal tilts his head to the side, a hand sliding up through Aladdin's hair to urge his mouth to his already thoroughly bitten-up throat. "Mmnn, I don't care. You can take me anywhere, however you want." 

 

Abruptly, Aladdin feels the urge to take Judal up on that, to grab his hand (or throw him over his shoulder) and leap out the window, heading as far away from Sindria and their kings as they can get, leaving all the _struggle_ and everything that’s coming behind. “You’ll be happy as long as I’m with you, right?”

 

The sudden sobriety in Aladdin's voice makes Judal blink, and he leans back, frowning. "Yeah. Why? You sound weird, asking it like that." 

 

Aladdin shivers, and props himself up on his arms, swallowing hard. He considers lying, but that’s not fair. “I think something is coming. Yunan...he thinks he got a message from Solomon. I don’t know what he said or what’s going to happen, but…” He trails off, reaching up to cup Judal’s face. “You know I won’t let anything happen to you.”

 

"… You think he's going to do something to me." Dread settles into the pit of his stomach, and Judal shakes his head as if trying to shake off the wave of anxiety that follows. "But I didn't _do_ anything. And now that you're back again, my rukh can get better, especially when he isn't _watching_ me all the time." Maybe it's the lingering alcohol, but panic wells faster than ever up through his veins, making his throat tight. "You _know_ I didn't do anything, why does he _hate me_ so much?"

 

“Shhh, it’s going to be fine.” _I shouldn’t have said anything. This is worse than the eyes, if I can’t fix it…_

 

“I don’t think it’s even about you. Like I said, he got a message from Solomon, it’s about kings or something, _not_ about you.” He sits up, cupping Judal’s face in both hands now, _willing_ him to calm down. “And if he gets here and your rukh is okay, there’s nothing he can do if he wants to obey Solomon’s laws.” Aladdin taps a finger against his forehead. “Trust me.”

 

Judal sucks in a few shaky, heaving breaths, too fast and unsteady before he slowly calms down again, his head dropping forward and into Aladdin's grasp. "Okay." Inhale. Exhale. His eyes lid, hands lifting to grab at Aladdin's and keep them in place. "Okay. You just… you have to help me, I've been _trying_ but I can't…" he trails off miserably, eyes wet as they flicker desperately upward to meet Aladdin's. "It's _there_ , so I can't _help_ but touch it. And ever since I've gotten here without you… it's been worse. The weather keeps changing even when I don't will it. If I'm not careful, plants start _growing_ weird, or worse, just dying. Everyone's been tense and in a bad mood and I can't help but think… it's my influence on this place, messing things up."

 

Aladdin’s arms go around Judal, holding him close, trying to hold him so tightly that he can protect Judal from everything, from Yunan, from the world, from _himself_. “You just have to remember,” he says quietly, “your rukh was never meant to be black. It doesn’t _have_ to be. Just a little at a time, and any time you feel the urges you turn to me, remember? Just like we practiced, and I’m _sorry_ I had to leave, I’ll…” He swallows hard, and promises, “I’ll never leave you again. Look how happy my rukh is when you’re around.”

 

A rapid nod follows, and Judal buries his face into the side of Aladdin's neck, his arms lifting to cling to him no matter how he shakes. "I don't _want_ it to be black again," he mumbles, voice wet around the edges as he rubs his face into the crook of Aladdin's shoulder. "I _don't_. It hurts. Stings. And I'm always just… really, really tired." 

 

“It’s _not_ black,” Aladdin points out, and pinches off a little fluttering black body, pulling it out of the cloud and exhaling deeply, releasing it when it’s white again. The effort leaves him a little shaky, but he smiles. “Not even half. And _not_ everything you touch goes wrong, your shields still felt pure to me when I came through them.” He pets Judal’s hair, voice gentle as he says, “So don’t stress so much, all right? We should spend tonight celebrating.”

 

"… Okay." Right. Right, he has Aladdin back, and that makes everything better. Judal sniffs, heaving a long, shuddering sigh before he sags forward against him gratefully. "I really… _really_ missed you. And Sindrian wine makes me all weepy, I hate it. Don't let me drink it again." 

 

“Oh, _that’s_ what I’m tasting!” Aladdin exclaims, stroking softly down Judal’s back. “I just thought you’d been holding grapes in your mouth for a really long time. Have you been eating lots? You know your rukh gets droopy when you forget…”

 

"I'm gonna be a drunk, just like my stupid king," Judal laments, flopping his head against Aladdin's shoulder again. "Haven't felt like eating. The first couple of weeks were fine, but then nothing tasted good anymore and I got bored." 

 

Aladdin’s eyes light up. “Does that mean you want to come to the kitchen and eat? I flew a _long way_ and Yunan didn’t feed me at all.”

 

"Yunan's a jerk." Judal almost hopes he hears that. "But yeah, food is good. Clothes… not so much." Why he can't just walk around naked is a mystery to him.

 

“Hey, I know! Why don’t we just wrap up in blankets? You said you wanted to be a worm, right?”

 

Judal perks up a bit at that. "You'd be a good worm," he agrees, nudging at Aladdin's shoulder. "Another Magi for the worm kingdom." 

 

“Do I need a passport?”

 

"No, my king is the worm king, so you get a free pass." 

 

“Okay!” Aladdin cocks his head. “Can I kidnap you from the worm kingdom too?”

 

"You can kidnap me from anywhere," Judal happily sighs, setting his teeth to Aladdin's shoulder for a brief, affectionate nip. "We can go be worms wherever. I'm a cute worm, Sinbad says so." 

 

“Let’s start with the kitchen. Hmm…” Aladdin thinks quickly, then rolls himself up into a blanket. “Is this what you meant? Am I a proper worm?”

 

"Really good worm," Judal immediately approves, and he rolls in the other direction to wrap himself up in another blanket. "Worm equips." 

 

“Ohh, I don’t think I can do a full worm equip yet. I’m still on the blanket equip only.” Aladdin floats up into the air, head just barely exposed above his cocoon. “How much food can worms eat? I hope it’s a lot.”

 

"Amateur," Judal sniffs, even as he simply rolls off of the bed onto the floor before bothering with any sort of magic to make himself float as well. "Worms can eat a lot, though. Maybe turn to butterflies when fat enough, not sure."

 

“Then you’d better not get too fat,” Aladdin says, a bit sternly. “I don’t want you changing into anything else. I’m keeping you just the way you are.”

 

"Don't worry, I like being a worm. You can get fat, though," Judal decides, butting his head forward against the back of Aladdin's shoulder. "I'll still like you a lot." 

 

“But how do worms eat without hands?” Aladdin asks, the real questions presenting themselves. “I didn’t travel to the Dark Continent and back to starve as a worm. I want to be a really fat worm--like so fat I need a bigger blanket.”

 

"Worms," Judal begins, leaning forward conspiratorially, "can have hands when there's food."

 

Aladdin’s eyes go huge. “Then what are we waiting for? Let’s go!” _Worms truly are the perfect species._

 

~~

 

"I am going to take your wine away if you don't _focus_."

 

It's a threat that _usually_ works, though it seems to fall on deaf ears as of late. Ja'far can only sigh and watch his king's work pile up as it tends to do when Sinbad's mind is _elsewhere_ , and takes to forging his signature more often than not when the man conveniently forgets about scheduled tasks in favor of tavern runs with Sharrkan in tow. 

 

Ja'far _would_ blame it on Judal, but the Magi's attention has been so heavily focused on Aladdin lately that--wait. No. Maybe that's the problem. His eyes narrow contemplatively as he watches his king. _Is_ Sinbad capable of jealousy? Past the idea of _him_ doing someone else's accounting, that is. No, more than likely he is just being Sinbad… as per usual. 

 

Sinbad looks up, brow furrowed in concentration, and blinks. “Hmm? What? Oh.” There’s always more wine, after all. The itch is back, under his skin the way it prickles when a lightning storm approaches and Baal gets restless, and he needs a _distraction_ more than anything. “I should go see if Sharrkan wants to do something.”

 

Ja'far stares blandly at him, far from impressed, and the stack of parchment in his grasp comes down upon Sinbad's head in a firm swat without hesitation. "You are not allowed to go out with him. Please listen when I'm talking to you, I asked you to focus." 

 

Sinbad frowns more than flinches, attempting to banish the strange feeling. “Right, right, sorry. Come sit on my lap, maybe I’ll focus better that way.”

 

"You most certainly won't." The stare is incredulous now. " _Honestly_ , all you ever do when I give into that particular request is grab and pinch me, and your work ends up even less done."

 

“Ah, I can’t focus anyway,” Sinbad complains, running his hands through his hair. “Can’t you feel it? Like when the air’s pressure changes before a sandstorm--it’s been getting worse and worse, you _must_ feel it.”

 

Ja'far heaves a long sigh, lifting a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. He would be lying to say that he didn't, of course, but that hardly means he will neglect his work because of a strange change in the atmosphere. If anything, it makes him work harder and try to get ahead, in the event something _does_ happen. Less for him to catch up on, after all. "You are incorrigible," he mutters, but then again, what does that make him to surrender to such a ridiculous demand as he circles around to the other side of the desk, setting the paperwork down as he slides over to sit on Sinbad's knee with only a hint of a flush to his cheeks? 

 

Sinbad hooks his nose onto Ja’far’s shoulder, exhaling slowly as his arms come around the younger man’s waist. “Much better,” he declares, and allows himself the luxury of one kiss to Ja’far’s cheek. “So, were we still on the budget? Or was it land allocations again?” Odd, that today it actually _does_ help him a bit to have Ja’far on his lap, at least distracting one of his senses.

 

At that, Ja'far relaxes, just a bit. _Maybe_ , he thinks as he leans forward to shuffle through his papers, _this time, Sinbad will actually behave and focus like he always says he will when he wants me to do this._ "Actually, more pressing is the fact that Laem still has not responded to your inquiries regarding Balbadd's trade agreement. Odd, considering how Scheherazade is normally so swift to shoot us down," he wryly notes.

 

Sinbad peers at the paper, eyes flickering over the words as his gaze sours. “She’s gotten far more efficient with her rejections since I took Judal as my Magi,” he agrees slowly. “I’d never thought she’d make a treaty with any country that has one, let alone one with a relative unknown like Aladdin. Have your spies in Laem managed to tell us anything else--or barring that, your relationship with her boy?”

 

"Dead, all of them," Ja'far crossly replies. "And Titus… relatively close-mouthed. She has him fearing for his life, I swear. Perhaps she forged an alliance with Balbadd just to make you angry. I wouldn't put it past her, she has been prone to pettiness in the past." 

 

“Hmm, never so much as this. Perhaps….do you think she knows that we have the boy? I haven’t heard that she was so fond of him, but we’ve certainly been misinformed before. And of all the Magi, she is the most a mystery to me.” Sinbad’s hand strokes absently over the outside of a thigh, frowning at the papers.

 

The touch is an errant one, though still thoroughly _distracting_. Ja'far swallows slowly, trying to ignore it and not squirm. "I… do not think there much _fondness_ there. Possessiveness, perhaps. She doesn't seem to have ever mothered the child as much as she has controlled his every move. I don't think he is even allowed out on the streets of Laem. And I think if she knew we had him, she would have been here already." 

 

“Hmm. Food for thought, certainly. I didn’t even know that Magi _could_ sire children, I’d have been after Judal to do it ages ago, especially knowing how powerful the boy is. Spare no expense when it comes to swaying his loyalty.” He plucks another paper from the pile. “Next.”

 

"… You know, there have been stories about a number of exceptionally magical children in Balbadd as of late, do the math," Ja'far wearily retorts. 

 

Sinbad frowns. “I want them. Make it happen, I want them Sindrians. Offer their mothers security, money, life free from shame, you name it.”

 

"I am fairly certain most are _Aladdin's,_ judging by the age the rumors suggests _\--_ though I suppose that doesn't quite matter in the long run," Ja'far amends with a dismissive wave of his hand. "I will see to it, my king. Now, regarding this upcoming month's budget changes--"

 

"Ah, there are more of them? Goodness, Zadi, if you have started a _trend_ \--"

 

Ja'far jerks straight from Sinbad's lap in a flash, blades in hand as his attention whips toward the window, ready to strike. There's a strange _lack_ of power pulsing behind his vessel suddenly--a complacency, dull and muted, and that brings him no small amount of unease until he truly _looks_ at who sits there on the sill, staff lazily held in hand. 

 

"Hello, Sinbad," Yunan easily greets. "It has been some time. Your country is lovely." 

 

Suddenly, the unease, the uncertainty, the _itching_ makes sense. Now that it’s here, the storm breaking in the form of the most dangerous man in the world perched on his windowsill, Sinbad relaxes. At least when he knows what’s coming for him, there’s nothing _frightening_ about it. Intimidating, sure, but not _frightening_. 

 

_Baal you big coward, stop hiding from him._

 

“Yunan. Ah, and my lady Scheherezade, I am deluged with good fortune.”

 

"Aren't you, though? It is her first time traveling from Laem in nearly half a century, and she chooses to visit Sindria with me." Yunan smiles, his head tilting towards Ja'far. "Don't be so tense, little snake, I mean no harm to you or your king." 

 

Ja'far visibly hesitates, lowering his blades even as he steps back, protectively close to Sinbad. The unease from before is even more stark now--a thinly veiled _rumbling_ of power, undoubtedly from the sharp, strange charge in the air that has every bit to do with all four Magi being on one rather small island. 

 

"Though," Yunan continues as he steps from the window, "I _would_ appreciate an audience with your Magi. I will allow him to restore Sindria's shields first, of course. I had to do a bit of tampering with them to allow Zadi inside, very nice work." 

 

“Much better than I had expected from Judal,” Scheherezade murmurs, looking as if it sours her mouth to give him even that much of a compliment. 

 

Sinbad gives her a brilliant smile, and Yunan a slightly more genuine one, with a deep nod of his head. “I will see if he can be spared from his tasks. As you must understand, to be the Magi of such a young country is highly tasking. Ja’far, see to it.” It’s almost certainly no use to hope that the visitors will see Ja’far as nothing more than his clerk, not when Ja’far bears his household vessel, but damned if he’ll give _anyone_ ammunition against Ja’far again after Kouen.

 

Ja'far lingers a moment longer, gaze sharp upon the pair of Magi as he makes for the door, clearly pained by the idea of leaving Sinbad _alone_. 

 

"Ah, Zadi," Yunan brightly remembers, glancing back to the other Magi, "can you see your boy now? He has a very unique rukh about him, being so close to you as he is." 

 

“Indeed. I felt him,” Scheherezade says, turning her gaze to Sinbad, “the moment we entered the shields.”

 

“Boy?” Sinbad asks. “You mean Aladdin?”

 

“My son. Who you have been keeping from me.”

 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. What does he look like?” Sinbad asks, the picture of earnest helpfulness.

 

Yunan's lips slowly curve in amusement. "And here I thought your observation skills a bit greater than that," he murmurs, catching Sinbad's eyes briefly. _I don't believe a word out of your mouth._ "If Sinbad is unaware, then there is no need to look so cross, Zadi. Go and find him." 

 

Staff in hand, Scheherezade touches down lightly to the ground, giving Sinbad a last cold, hard look before setting off. 

 

“Ahh,” Sinbad says, once she’s left the room. “Come to think of it, there _was_ a boy from Laem who looked exactly like her and claimed to be an immensely competent magician. But his name was _Tristan_ ,” he says with a smile. “Not Titus, as I believe Scheherezade’s son was called. I sent him a wedding present.”

 

"A strange coincidence, that," is the Magi's drawl as he drifts further into the room, casually taking a seat upon the edge of Sinbad's desk. "Don't mind her either way. She's moody because she thinks I fly too fast, it makes her nauseous."

 

Sinbad leans forward onto his elbows, intrigued in spite of the little voice that reminds him Yunan’s visits are _never_ simple and only occasionally wind up in his favor. Still, they’re always _interesting_. “And what have I done that is so _exceptionally_ naughty to warrant a visit from you?”

 

"Oh," Yunan sighs, lifting one booted foot to rest it on the arm of Sinbad's chair. "Not you. I have few issues with you, all things considered." 

 

“What a shame. Here I thought I’d been _interesting_.” Sinbad raises an eyebrow, knees apart as he lets his eyes follow the line of Yunan’s leg.

 

"You are, without misbehaving so badly." Yunan tips his head forward. "Judal, on the other hand… hmm. I don't know what to do with him."

 

Sinbad’s natural instinct towards advancing this as far as he can take it falters, and halts. “Judal? What’s he done to you?”

 

A long-suffering sigh follows that. "Always with the insinuation that he has done something to _me_ directly… I am not so petty." Yunan's leg slides to the side, his foot prodding Sinbad's chest. "It isn't me, but Solomon's laws that he has defied. He has a lot of gall, the brat." 

 

“I like a bit of fire in my Magi,” Sinbad says almost lazily, one hand coming up to trace a finger down the line of Yunan’s foot, up his calf. “It’s been a long time since you’ve laid physical eyes on me, old friend. I was but a brat back then, too.”

 

" _You_ were cute." A muscle twitches in his calf, Yunan's foot pressing flat to Sinbad's chest to playfully shove. "Your Magi makes me angry. He doesn't _learn_." 

 

“On the contrary,” Sinbad murmurs, back hitting his chair as he looks expectantly up. “He learns new ways to make my life difficult every day. Summoning _your_ ire is a new one, even for him.”

 

"You _know_ ," Yunan says softly, "that _that_ is not of which I speak." 

 

It's in one easy, graceful slide that Yunan's leg pulls away, and instead, Sinbad finds his lap full of him, a knee between his legs and Yunan's arms draped over the back of his chair. "I am doing you a great courtesy," he murmurs against Sinbad's ear, "to be this kind. Any other creature that defied Solomon so _repeatedly_ would not be granted my mercy a dozen times over." 

 

Sinbad’s eyes lid at the press of Yunan’s knee, and his hands come up to the other man’s waist--a bold move he’d not have dared make the last time, so intimidated had he been. “You have my gratitude. How shall I repay you, Wisest of the Wise?”

 

"The titles are cute and flattering," Yunan says with a smile, wriggling closer as he straddles Sinbad's thigh. "But unnecessary. You have nice hands, King of Sindria," he sighs, lips parting against Sinbad's throat to teeth it, to suck on the same spot afterwards. "I hope you put them well to use." 

 

Sinbad stands, and in a second Yunan is on his back on the desk, Sinbad kneeling down between his thighs. “The last time you graced me with your presence,” he breathes, winding that long braid around his hand, “I was but a boy. Let me show you how I serve my lovers as a king.”

 

Solomon never said he couldn't have _fun_ while he was out and about.

 

A sound akin to a purr leaves his throat, long legs wrapping their way around Sinbad's hips as Yunan reaches and grabs for the king's hair. "By all means," he breathes, eyes lidded and too bright, the flutter of his rukh intensifying just a bit to better have a _taste_ of Sinbad's, the breadth of it making him shudder. Yes, a good king. Not as good as his own, but if he had ever intended to choose again… Sinbad would have been good. 

 

Sinbad’s hands wander, sliding down an elegantly curved leg, parting the tunic and shirt, baring the skin that remains smooth no matter its centuries of age. He finds the gap between the tunic and Yunan’s boots, stroking over the soft skin of his thighs with a pleased little rumble in his chest. “For a hermit,” he murmurs, hands sliding up those thighs, up his belly to smooth over his chest, “you dress so _lewd_.”

 

"So says a king that drapes his own Magi in sheers." A squirm, and Yunan stretches a leg out to brace it against the arm of the chair behind Sinbad, leverage found to toe off one boot, the smooth, bared skin of his leg dragging against Sinbad's side as it draws back. "We all have our tastes--am I to assume you would dress me so differently?" 

 

“Were you my Magi,” Sinbad says, and oh, even saying the words, even imagining for a second what he could _accomplish_ with that kind of power at his back, at his side, the wisdom of ages whispered in his ear, is enough to make him harden, “I would adorn you in whatever suited you best, that my eye found pleasing.” He plucks at the tunic, pulling it back to bare a shoulder, giving it a hard, sucking bite. “It’s a good color, but too rough a fabric. Skin this soft deserves silks.”

 

Yunan can't help but laugh at that, low and rumbling as his shoulders roll, his head falling back. Sinbad's mouth is good, too, as nice as his hands, and Yunan twists a hand up through his hair, fingers scraping against his scalp. "Silk," he says, splaying his other hand's fingers against Sinbad's chest as he drags them down, plucking at draping fabric, "has even more of a tendency to slink down and off. It would never stay on, or is that the point, _Your Majesty?_ " 

 

“As much as I crave you bare,” Sinbad murmurs, and on that word a swift yank divests Yunan of half his clothing, sending it to the floor, “I know how to outfit a treasure. Mmm, no silver for you, gold fastenings would bring out the gold in your hair.” 

 

He bends, covering Yunan’s neck, his chest with kisses, sucking a nipple into his mouth and gently scraping his teeth over it, hands coming down to squeeze his ass through the cloth.

 

As _fun_ as it had been to play with Sinbad when he was much, much younger, far more an awkward boy than the man he has become now, Yunan thinks he likes this _much_ more. 

 

His groan is a breathy one, hitching hard in his throat, and Yunan's fingers twist harder into Sinbad's hair, a firm yank close to his scalp only encouraging the scrape of those teeth. He writhes, kicking off his other boot in the process, his bare legs splaying instinctively when Sinbad's fingers knead into his flesh, and ah, god, there's no helping the way his pulse jumps and shudders. "I won't break," he urges, chest heaving from the effort it takes not to simply claw tracks down the man's back already. 

 

Sinbad’s grin is wicked when he pulls back, leaning down to give another bite, then yanking Yunan’s legs apart, bending him as far as he’ll comfortably go, pulling back only to shuck his own robes. Bare skin against skin is better, far better, and the next time he leans forward to bite at Yunan’s chest, his cock drags against the other man’s, already throbbing and hard. “So eager to have me between your legs,” he murmurs, and reaches down for a spare bit of oil he keeps at his desk, just in _case_ , slicking his fingers before trailing them up the cleft of Yunan’s ass.

 

It's impossible _not_ to be eager with Sinbad's cock pressing against him, with the sharp snap of his teeth against his flesh, and Yunan's eyes flutter, skin hot as he twists and squirms to press down, mouth falling open at the slick slide of just those fingers _against_ him _._ "Everything about you," he breathes, and he surrenders to the urge to drag his hands down Sinbad's back, to sink his nails in and leave half-moon imprints for now, "feels _good_."

 

There’s still a hint of lingering, bitter resentment from the last time, that he’d conquered Yunan’s dungeon, obeyed his every instruction, and Yunan had _still_ left without choosing him as a king. That vanishes when the Magi’s nails prick into his back, and Sinbad hisses out a breath, sliding in two long fingers to tease and stretch. “I’ll make everything about you feel good,” he breathlessly promises, and slicks his cock with the oil, spreading Yunan’s legs wider still as he slides between them, fingers curling and stroking inside. “You want more?”

 

" _Yes_ \--" 

 

It isn't Solomon. Far from Solomon, far from that thudding, aching pulse of rukh when they are entwined, but oh, god, it's as good as he's going to get rid now and it's _close_ , besides. Yunan shudders, arching his back as he writhes, uncaring and wanton as he rides down against Sinbad's hand, panting with every deep press and slide of just the man's fingers. "Want your cock inside me," he groans, nails biting into Sinbad's back as they rake down. "All of it, _fuck me_ \--" 

 

Sinbad draws out his hand, and with a quick twist flips Yunan over onto the desk, moving up behind him to rub the stiff line of his cock up and down the cleft of Yunan’s ass. “This way,” he murmurs, hands coming up to pinch and tug at Yunan’s nipples, “I can really fuck you like a whore.”

 

It’s not much of a stretch, not when Yunan had begged for his cock, splayed over his desk in broad daylight. Sinbad rubs up and down for another second, then presses his cock inside, a slow pressure until the thick head stretches him enough, then a long, thorough, _hard_ slide of the rest of it, hips slapping forward against Yunan’s. “All of it, like you wanted.”

 

Yunan _melts_ with the initial, deep slide, his body a shaking, trembling thing as he's stuffed full until his toes and fingers curl and it's difficult to even draw a full breath. _There's_ that ache, one he craves and needs and _loves_ , and Yunan moans as he shoves himself back, cheek pressing down into the wood of the desk as he huffs out a hot, ragged exhale, the impossibly tight stretch of Sinbad's cock inside of him making his legs nearly buckle. "Good," he pants out, "really good. Use me like one of your whores-- _god_ , you have a nice cock--"

 

_I wonder who it is, that you think of when I’m inside you._

 

Sinbad knows well enough when he’s being used, not that he _minds_ , but it does make him curious. “No,” he murmurs, and his hands slide up to Yunan’s waist, yanking him back, shoving his upper back down to the desk so only his ass is in the air, sweet and tight and inviting as Sinbad slams into him again and again. “I treat my whores like _princesses_. I would never use them...as roughly as I’m going to use you,” he promises, breath hitching as he slides into that tight, sweet heat, and he leaves a stinging slap on one pale cheek.

 

A sharp, broken cry pulls from his throat, and Yunan _sobs_ as he lurches back, never mind the stinging, aching _throb_ of reddened flesh. His own cock is so hard that his vision blurs, suddenly wet, and ah, _god_ , this is even better than he thought it would be, being yanked back onto Sinbad's cock, legs splayed and body stretched so wide, stuffed so very, very _full_. His cock jumps and twitches with every thrust and it's hard to think when his hands scrabble against the desk, his eyes rolling back into his head. "T-then just use me, I don't care, just like _that_ \--"

 

 _You need someone to use you, don’t you?_ Sinbad wonders, even as he slams deep inside the Magi, every so often accompanied by a hard, stinging slap of his hand, reddening that pretty flesh as he listens to Yunan’s cries. _You can’t get this anywhere. Does it need to be a king?_

 

It doesn’t matter.

 

All that matters is that Yunan is writhing on his cock like a whore, enjoying himself far more, panting and desperate, and Sinbad gives him what he wants. He takes the Magi roughly, fast, brutal thrusts into his arching body, driving him down hard against the desk, feeling him twitch and writhe. “You look so pretty full of cock,” he groans, and a hand snakes down Yunan’s belly to curve around his cock. “Come on, whore, make me come.”

 

It's a compliment that makes him groan, an _order_ that makes him shudder and squirm, and Yunan desperately wriggles down into Sinbad's hand, grinding himself back as much as he can as well, his body aching and trembling from needing every last bit of it--Sinbad's cock, his hands, every word from his tongue that makes him want to spread his legs and take everything he has all the more--

 

He sobs as he comes, spilling over Sinbad's fist with a mindless jerk of his hips, every muscle in his body a shaky, spasming thing as he writhes on Sinbad's cock. "God," he moans, his face burying itself into one of his own arms as his chest heaves and even his rukh trembles to the core. "You feel so good, I can't--" 

 

“You can.”

 

Sinbad’s hips snap up, urgent now, harder now, _savage_ now that Yunan is clenching so tight his eyes roll back into his head. “You can,” he says again, hand leaving Yunan’s cock to grab him by the waist, yanking him back harder, filling him with every bit of his cock as he comes, spilling hot and slick and _filling_ the Magi, a hard bite to the back of his shoulder. “You can,” he says, ragged and breathless, panting, a thin line of sweat beading at the base of his neck. “You can take all I give you and more, can’t you?” 

 

He leans forward, nibbling on Yunan’s earlobe, chest heaving as he whispers, “I bet you could take it if I rode you again right now.”

 

A white-hot shudder rakes down his spine, and Yunan thinks he nods, no matter how uncoordinated the movement feels. "Yes--god, _yes_ , ride me like a mare," he groans, a broken whine catching in his throat. "J-just… I don't _care_ , do what you want with me, my king--" 

 

 _Your king, hmm?_ Sinbad stares down at the man’s prone form, slowly pulling his cock free. After a few seconds, he slides a pair of fingers inside, slowly in and out, sticky and wet. “Look how lewd you are,” he says softly. “You would beg for more even while you’re leaking my seed?”

 

_I can be your king, if that’s what you need right now._

 

Yunan sags into the desk, a soft, ragged mewl pulled from his throat. "Y-yes," he manages to choke out, face hot as he rubs it down into his own arm, brow tightly knitted. "If it's you… then there's never enough." 

 

_And who are you talking to? Who is this man long-dead whose vacancy I’m filling?_

 

Ah well, it really doesn’t matter. Sinbad twists his fingers, chuckling low in his chest, fisting one hand in Yunan’s hair, stretching him out even though he must be sore, must be aching. _If I’m going to be your king tonight, I might a well give you what you need._ “My lovely Magi,” he rumbles, “always so eager for more of me. I should take you facedown over the side of my throne and see how you like that.”

 

 _Oh_. It's simply not fair how fast those words go to his cock, and Yunan's body shudders _hard_ , tightening around Sinbad's fingers as he bucks back with a high, needy sound. "Wish you would," he whines, biting his lip at the tense aching slide and stretch of Sinbad's fingers when he already feels so _used_. "Wish you would, in front of _everyone_. L-let them see who _owns_ me--"

 

Sinbad laughs, low and rich, adding a third finger. “I knew you’d like that. For everyone to see how well you serve your king, hmm? How _obedient_ you are.”

 

He slides his other hand up and under, rubbing his thumb over the swell of a nipple, over a fading bite mark. “They should hear you wail and scream for more, and know that no matter how much you look like a whore, they’ll never, _ever_ touch you while you belong to me.”

 

 _None_ of this is fair.

 

It's too familiar, too _perfect_ , even if in the back of his mind, Yunan knows it isn't exactly who he is looking for and craving so desperately. It's _close_ , though, and it doesn't stop him from enjoying it, from hearing those words so strongly in Solomon's voice and he nearly comes again right then without another touch to his cock, just on Sinbad's fingers and with his other hand toying with a swollen, aching nipple. 

 

His eyes are wet again, his chest heaving with every near-sob, and ah, god, he's nearly through, just clenching tight around those fingers and wriggling himself back onto them. " _Please_ ," he rasps. "Please, just a little more, I love being yours, I love it--"

 

Sinbad pulls out his fingers, then guides his cock back in, slow and careful. “Lucky Magi,” he half-teases, tugging on Yunan’s hair, then yanking harder, pulling him back onto his cock, “choosing a king with such endurance. You like being served all day long, hmm? Stuffed full for hours on end, nothing to do but writhe on my cock?”

 

Yunan groans, a wet, ragged sound as his back arches with the tug on his hair, with the deep, _aching_ slide of Sinbad's cock back inside of him. " _Yes_ ," is his all-too-earnest reply, and god, he'd be a liar if he said he didn't love the way Sinbad's cock filled him even when he's already so stretched and used. "J…just… just fuck me, use me like I'm just--" His eyes flutter, his voice catching hard. "Just a hole. _Please_." 

 

Sinbad’s breath hitches, and he slides in harder, rolling his hips _just_ so, dragging the thick head of his cock over that sweet spot inside Yunan, even as he pulls harder on the man’s hair. “Just a hole?” he breathes, and chuckles. “No. A pretty hole for me to fuck, good, and a whole body for me to play with.” He pinches that nipple hard, and gives it a little twist. “Mine.”

 

His hand moves up, thumb pressing hard into a bite and bruise on his neck. “Mine.”

 

Finally he spreads Yunan’s thighs as wide as they’ll go, until his cock nearly touches the desk, and slides in hard and deep. “ _Mine_.”

 

Ah, god, he's done.

 

Every yank on his hair, every shove and grab and pinch and pull--too much, before Sinbad's cock even hits him so perfectly that his vision goes white, and everything after that is above and beyond what Yunan needs. He claws into the desk, thrashes and arches and wiggles and moans, his cock leaking and messily dripping at he ruts down, just a _touch_ to smooth wood throwing him mercilessly over the edge.

 

It's more intense the second time, and he comes so hard that his toes curl until his feet cramp, until his legs shake and buckle, and it's with some dim restraint that he keeps the _room_ from shaking as well, though only barely. Probably, Yunan begs Sinbad to keep going. He can't hear himself, over the hard thud of his own pulse.

 

Something groans in the palace, but Sinbad ignores it. “Shall I keep using you?” he grunts, hands coming to just hold Yunan down, shove him down against the desk as he ruts mindlessly. “Of course I will. A whore like you won’t be satisfied until I spill inside you again, I think.”

 

It’s hard to think over the slick clench of Yunan around him, so tight, so _tight_ , and even Sinbad’s stamina is nearly at an end. Nearly. Still, he can give Yunan what he needs. “Beg me, _whore_ ,” he breathes. “Beg me to fill you again.”

 

" _Please_ , please please--" It's automatic, _mindless_ how he obeys, and Yunan can't think past the urge to please, the urge to feel his king--no, not his king, but god, he might as _well be_ , for how well Sinbad mirrors him now--spill inside of him again, to leave him slick and dripping and _used_. "U-use your Magi, your whore, your _toy_ ," he pleads. "I need it, I need you to come i-inside me--"

 

A wrench of his arms, and Sinbad sits back onto his chair, hauling Yunan back with him to slide in to the hilt, farther even than before as he comes, eyes rolling back into his head with the intensity of it, hands digging in hard and leaving bruises, and he can’t even muster the mental facility to say _anything_ now, just hold Yunan down, twitching and trembling, filling him until some leaks out around his cock, slick and messy.

 

It takes him a long, long moment to catch his breath, and he sags back, eyes closed.

 

Yunan finds himself little better as he sinks back into Sinbad's chest, head lolling back over his shoulder as his chest rises and falls with each heavy, gulping breath. _Unfairly good_ , he dazedly thinks, and lifts a hand to rather limply pluck at a strand of Sinbad's hair that trails over his own, sweat-slick skin. _It's bad, that I could learn to enjoy this vice._

 

Something in Sinbad is reluctant to spoil the moment yet, so he simply strokes through Yunan’s hair, brushing it gently back from his face. The first time they’d met, he’d noticed even as a teenager that there was something unbearably lonely in the Magi, and at least right now, he doesn’t seem to be too badly hurt by it. _And if it means he shows slightly more leniency to Judal because of it, so much the better._ Even if it weren’t for Judal, Yunan feels good and solid in his arms, not like the waif he looks.

 

"… You make me want to keep you," are Yunan's low, eventual words, amused and a little tired all at once, as he tips his head to the side to lean against Sinbad's touch. "Almost." 

 

Sinbad smiles, stroking a thumb over Yunan’s shoulder. “You had your chance. I hope I was more satisfactory now than when I was fourteen.”

 

"Oh, you were plenty fun then, too," he sighs, shutting his eyes as he settles back with a content rumble. "Now, though, is just something entirely different."

 

“I noticed.” Sinbad nuzzles down into Yunan’s hair, adding, “If there’s anything particular you want me to say or do, you need only ask. I’m quite content to give you what you need like this.”

 

"Trying to spoil me, are you?" Yunan gently tugs upon Sinbad's hair. "Or perhaps win me over?"

 

“Or perhaps,” Sinbad says dryly, “when someone lovely drifts through my window and begs to be used like a whore on my desk, I want to keep that someone happy. I respect your power, but I don’t fear you.”

 

"A fellow hedonist, then." Yunan thinks he like that answer the most, and it makes him snuggle back a bit into Sinbad's chest. "Don't worry, you've served me well enough already. And I don't want you to fear me, besides; I told you I didn't come here to bring you any harm."

 

“You can’t blame me for being...hmm, apprehensive. Your visits are always auspicious.” Sinbad smiles, an arm snaking around Yunan’s waist to pull him close. “I owe you a great deal, besides. My kingdom and I are at your service, whatever you have need of.”

 

"You have more to fear from Zadi, she's so _prickly_ concerning you these days," Yunan sighs, flopping his head back lazily. "I just need to see your Magi." 

 

Sinbad sighs. “Whatever she thinks, I didn’t abduct her brat. He truly did come here of his free will claiming another name. And for what it’s worth, better he stay here than have his mother feed him to a lion.” His teeth scrape gently over the shell of Yunan’s ear. “Don’t kill my Magi. I want to live forever.”

 

At that, Yunan laughs. "You won't live forever either way," he gently chides. "That isn't part of the deal. And…" he pauses, his head turning to _look_ at Sinbad. "Feed him to a _lion?_ "

 

Sinbad shrugs. “Apparently that’s what they do in Laem, I hear, to a man who’d rather be a wife than take one. The boy is terrified.”

 

"There is a reason," Yunan mutters, "that she and I do not talk about politics. But I will speak to her about this, no matter how the boy's existence is… questionable, to begin with. He does not deserve to be eaten by lions." He sighs, stretching, nuzzling his face into Sinbad's neck. "Tell me, King of Sindria, about your Magi." 

 

The truth, now. Sinbad has no way of knowing what Yunan has already seen, nor what answers he’s looking for, and any lie would only be to Judal’s detriment. “He struggles. He has been dark, and light, and the struggle is a constant one for him.” He shrugs. “As it is for me, and for everyone who lives both in day and night.”

 

Yunan hums, nosing at the brass hoop of an earring. "But," he says, eyes lidding, "you are a good person, are you not? And that pulls your rukh accordingly. You are not so dark as you once were, even. Do you think he is a good person like that, as well? Would he go out of his way to aid other countries, to bring so many people together as you have?" 

 

“I,” Sinbad says carefully, choosing his words, “have given him my own tests. Had he not passed them, I would never have consented to have him by my side. He once chose to give up his life to save mine, and….well, he is still young. His moody spells used to bring down fire and ice, and now they send him to his bed to mope. And he’s better when Aladdin is around,” he adds, snorting out a laugh, hand coming up to wind the end of Yunan’s braid around his fingers.

 

The Magi's face shifts contemplative, his eyes drifting down to watch the play of Sinbad's fingers about his hair. "… Solomon spared him once," he slowly allows. "I believe I understood it then. To have one's connection to the rukh severed and still _live…_ ahh, even I felt pity for the boy, and I had a number of my own trepidations regarding him. This time… hmm."

 

“He tries,” Sinbad says simply. “He hurts no one, and assists when he can. Meet him, as he is, and see for yourself. The people love him--surely you’ve heard of his fame as a Healer, even in your faraway land.”

 

"Do you love him?" It's an almost casual question, as he says it. "Would you be distraught if the black rukh took him again? It will kill him, this time, if it does. Or would you merely be troubled over your country's future, and perhaps try to seek another Magi's aid?" 

 

 _“I’m a worm,”_ Judal says in Sinbad’s memory. And much longer ago, _“I’m your Magi now. I don’t want any other king.”_

 

_“Your rukh is bright like the sun.”_

 

 _“I’ll do everything, I_ missed _you, you don’t have to worry--”_

 

“He has my love,” Sinbad says softly. “And I would do whatever need be to keep him safe and well.”

 

"… Then you would do well to nurture that," Yunan slowly answers, "because I do not foresee his rukh changing terribly for the better. That is why I have watched him these past two years." 

 

Sinbad lifts a shoulder in a half-shrug. “Stranger things have happened, foreseen and unforeseen. Whatever happens, he will not be abandoned by his king.”

 

"You can't stop him from being lost, if he falls to depravity." 

 

Sinbad looks up, meeting Yunan’s eyes. “I can try.”

 

Yunan's mouth slowly twists, amused. "… You _do_ remind me of him," he absently murmurs, allowing himself to reach up a hand, his thumb dragging over Sinbad's lips. "Would you try and kill me, too, if I decided upon meeting your Magi that he was too dangerous to let live?" 

 

Sinbad presses a kiss to that thumb, his tongue flicking out to brush over it. “I remind you of him,” he says quietly. “Answer the question for me, then. Are there lengths that your king would not have gone to, to keep you safe?” _I doubt it._

 

Yunan's smile widens. "But there was not a man alive that could kill me, even then, so your question seems moot." 

 

“A fact I’m certain many lamented,” Sinbad remarks casually, “if you were such a brat back then as you are now. _Be that as it may,_ I am firm. Judal is my Magi. I’ll not forsake him.”

 

"Ooh, rude. Though I was never called a brat, thank you." _The names were quite a bit worse._ Yunan chuckles, leaning in to brush a kiss to the corner of Sinbad's mouth. "I suppose I will take that into consideration, then. I have little desire to see you fall as well."

 

“I can only hope you’ll find him...tolerable,” Sinbad murmurs, and tugs Yunan down for another brush of his lips. “I know I would much prefer doing this again to being dead. Shall I take you to him, then?”

 

"Mmnn, I suppose. You don't think he's tried to leave, do you?" He would be lying if he said he had paid attention to much of anything aside from their little tryst. Oops. "And I don't want his lover there, if he hasn't."

 

Sinbad sighs. “I’ll try to pry them apart. They’re really quite...adhesive. We just treat them like a pair of kittens, they usually stop rolling around when there’s food to be eaten. Come with me, or wait here?”

 

Yunan's smile turns immediately mischievous. "Let me sit on your throne, and I'll let them stay attached." 

 

A little shiver goes through Sinbad at that mental image. “Put on my crown while you’re at it.” He slides from his chair, pulling on his robes. “I’ll be back in a few minutes. Don’t bother getting decent on my account, I know your true self.”

 

"It would be rude to greet guests like this," Yunan sighs, though he waves a dismissive hand all the same. "Take your time." 

 

Judal, meanwhile, wants to do little more than hide.

 

Years ago, perhaps he would have wanted to challenge Yunan head-on, unaware of exactly how powerful the man was and with little to lose. Now, after shakily repairing his shields after having him simply _slip through them_ and then modify them to his tastes to allow Scheherazade through, Judal can't shake the unease of having Yunan so close, so obviously near his _king_ , for that matter, and there's no stopping his stomach from doing flips or his rukh from churning about in uneasy little fits. 

 

It was supposed to be _fixed_ , by the time Yunan came to judge him. It _isn't_. 

 

Sinbad lets himself into Judal’s rooms, noting Judal curled up on the bed, Aladdin perched like some kind of watchdog on the windowsill. The boy turns and gives him a worried smile, and Sinbad nods, sitting on the edge of the bed, reaching a hand out to Judal. “You know he’s here.”

 

"… He's going to kill me." 

 

Judal lifts his head, a slow, anxious exhale following. "You have to make him go away." 

 

“He’s not going to kill you.” Sinbad reaches for Judal’s hand, bringing it to his mouth for a kiss. “He’s a reasonable man, some of the time. Besides, he likes me, and I’ve told him I’ll die before letting him take you.”

 

"He doesn't _like me_. I can feel it, it doesn't matter even if my rukh is better, he still doesn't like _me_." Judal shivers, fingers tightly squeezing around Sinbad's. "I didn't do anything to him." 

 

“Hey,” Sinbad says softly, squeezing back, “if he’d planned to kill you, he wouldn’t be letting me and Aladdin come with you, would he?”

 

Aladdin perks up. “He’s letting me come?”

 

“So long as we do it in the throne room. Come on,” he urges, tugging on Judal’s hand, “let him see how adorable you are. How could he not like you?”

 

"I don't feel very cute right now," Judal mumbles, slowly surrendering to the tug and sliding off of the bed. 

 

“Well, you _look_ cute.” Sinbad gives his hair a tug, straightening his clothes. “Just be yourself, he’s not that scary. Ja’far,” he calls, knowing that he must be _somewhere_ close by.

 

Judal swats at his hands, frowning. "I'm not scared of him, I just--" _I don't want to die._

 

"Yes, Sin?" Ja'far might as well have melted from the wall, and Judal tries not to shudder over it. 

 

“A fresh eye? Is he presentable? And after that, has Scheherezade found Titus yet?”

 

"He'll do," Ja'far drawls without looking much at Judal at all. A suggestion for something a little more conservative would be moot, honestly. "And I can only imagine so. Shall I go and let him use me as a shield?" 

 

“I was thinking along the lines of _moral support_. Offer something, some apprenticeship, offer her...I don’t know, one of my bastards, someone you’ve trained in his stead, we can make a swap, foster them out. Just let him know he doesn’t _have_ to go back.” He shrugs, and wraps an arm around Judal’s waist. “Ready?”

 

 _Same difference, then_ , Ja'far dryly thinks, but he nevertheless nods, slipping from the room without another word.

 

"No," is Judal's immediate, moody retort, his face burying its way into Sinbad's shoulder. "Let me be a worm the rest of my life instead. I'll heal stuff from under ground, I don't care."

 

Sinbad picks Judal up without hesitation, carrying him carefully down the halls. “You can go back to being a worm after this,” he promises. “Just a couple minutes talking to Yunan, then we can all rule the worm kingdom together.”

 

_If there's anything left of me._

 

Sinbad doesn't get it, as per usual. He can't _feel_ the weight of judgement in Yunan's rukh before they even make it to the throne room, and seeing the man perched on _his_ king's throne, his robes only barely wrapped around himself with his hair mussed and a number of all-too familiar bruises in very familiar places--

 

 _You slept with him? Really?_ is the put out stare he offers Sinbad, though as much as he thinks of squirming away, Sinbad's arms are far too reassuring right then. 

 

"Ah," Yunan sighs out, dropping a chin upon one knee, "you _are_ lovelier in person. What a shame."

 

Sinbad sets Judal on the ground gently, and gives Yunan an appropriately low bow. “Wisest of the Wise, I present to you my Magi, Judal.” _Don’t look at me like that, he’s very pretty._

 

He straightens, and meets Yunan’s eyes. “He has the full faith of Sindria, and of his king.”

 

Judal still finds himself wonder why it's a _shame_ that he's so pretty, and how, exactly, to get Yunan's rukh off of Sinbad now that he _notices_ it so clearly. _I'm prettier. You're a jerk_. Sucking in a slow breath, he looks hesitantly up at the other Magi. "Um--"

 

"You don't need to speak," Yunan dismissively says, eyes bright from beneath the heavy fall of his lashes. "I can already see enough. Hmm. At least there isn't as much as I thought there would be by now. It doesn't seem to be _growing_ …" 

 

Judal can't help but scowl, annoyed. "It never bothered you _before_ ," he irritably points out, "when it was turning to black really, really fast. So why now?" 

 

Yunan smiles slowly. "Because I don't want to deal with it again."

 

" _You_ didn't deal with anything."

 

"Or hear about it."

 

Is _he_ this annoying? "What do you want me to _do?_ I'm _trying_ to fix it, and I never meant to make it black again in the first place, I was just trying to help Sindria." 

 

Yunan's head tilts to the side. "You haven't been known to be the most loyal of us in the past, you know." 

 

Flitting between two countries, raising dungeons for two very different men in particular and all of their constituents--that's very, very true. But--"That was years ago." Judal's fingers curl into fists at his sides. "And only because Sinbad wouldn't let me choose him. So I--" 

 

"Ah, right. He wanted Aladdin, did he?" Yunan's smile turns deeply amused. "All right. What if I said that I wouldn't kill you right now if you gave him to _me?_ " 

 

The blood in his veins runs ice cold, and Judal swallows hard. "… I won't give him to you." 

 

"No? But he likes me well enough..."

 

"I won't!" His fingers twitch to grab for his wand, but instinct tells him that would be a very, _very_ bad idea. "You stay away from him, I don't want you _touching_ him again." 

 

Ah god. As flattering as it probably should be (is) to have two Magi on the verge of _fighting_ over him (though Sinbad will eat his own shoes if Yunan is actually being serious), there’s a panicky, horrified note in Judal’s voice that he doesn’t like at all. He lays a hand on Judal’s shoulder, squeezing tight. “Judal is my Magi,” he says, with all the confidence in Judal that he can put into his voice. “I will have no other.”

 

_I know what you’re doing, Yunan. I did the same thing to him years ago. See for yourself, as I did._

 

"… I'm not even allowed to touch him, am I? How boring," Yunan sighs, stretching a leg forward. "Mmn, but if it's straight from the horse's mouth that he will have no other, I suppose that can't be helped."

 

Judal is starting to understand why Scheherazade _hates it_ when other Magi are within Laem. Every bit of his influence finds Yunan repelling, an irritating _itch_ in his mind that he wants to scratch off with enough force to send him flying off the island and into the ocean. "You heard him, then," he manages, a little shakily, his chin jutting forward proudly. "Try and kill me, he still won't be yours." 

 

Yunan can't help but snort out a laugh. "All right, Sinbad. I will give you this much--he _is_ sort of cute. Or at least, better now, than he was when he was an ankle biter." 

 

“He still bites my ankles sometimes,” Sinbad says cheerfully. “Endearing, I think.” Part of him relaxes, though that in and of itself is dangerous around Yunan. Maybe. The old Magi is capricious, tending towards whims and whimsy, but at least Sinbad thinks this is going about as well as could be expected. “And as you can see,” he says, with a wave indicating all of Sindria, “my country has prospered with his influence. He is valued, and beloved.”

 

 _Though I can touch whoever I want,_ he adds silently.

 

"Even with the recent weather changes I heard you've been having?"

 

"I didn't _mean_ for that to happen!"

 

Yunan sighs, reclining. "And that is the problem, isn't it?" he murmurs thoughtfully. "A second time around, and the black rukh won't respond to you so easily. It reacts, not listens. Even if I have no intention of seeing to your death today, that does not make you exempt from still 'fixing' it, as you say. If you can, that is." His eyes slide to Aladdin, silent up until now. "I will commend _you_ , for somehow not having a shred of that darkness, no matter how your influence is all over him." 

 

“I help him,” Aladdin says simply, “when he asks, but he does most of it himself. I’ve never had a problem with his rukh trying to change mine.” He smiles, eyes softening as he looks at Judal. “He’s never tried to change me at all.”

 

"How long should I give you, then? A week, a month, a year?"

 

Judal growls. "Or you could just _leave me alone_ and trust that I'm not going to destroy anything." 

 

"No." Yunan's toes wiggle. "I will think on it, I suppose. In the meantime, you're free to go, I suppose you do not have the propensity to tear apart Sindria or anything else today and that's good." 

 

His face flushes hot, irritation and _anger_ sharply welling up, no matter how he wants to bite it all down. "Fine." _Are you just going to let him stay on your throne, Sinbad?_ God, Judal can't remember a more annoying sight. 

 

“Or,” Aladdin says, stepping forward to run a calming hand down Judal’s arm, settling some of the stirring, irritable rukh, “you could help him instead of just judging.”

 

Yunan smiles brightly. "And why would I want to interfere with your work? You seemed so confident before that you had it under control." 

 

"Get out of Sindria." It _does_ take a good amount of control for Judal not to draw his wand now.

 

"No, I like it here." Yunan flops sideways over Sinbad's throne. 

 

Time to intervene, Sinbad thinks, and he steps in front of Judal before he can do anything rash. True, Yunan is provoking him, but when Yunan can brush aside Judal’s magic like so much fluttering paper, perhaps that’s less of the point than he’d prefer. “Then, if you have made your decision,” he says smoothly with a bow, “Sindria’s hospitality is yours. There are a number of matters that require my Magi’s attention, if you would be so kind.”

 

"Oh, of course; like I said, you're free to go, I'm done," Yunan lightly says, content to make himself at home upon Sinbad's throne, snuggled up into his robes.

 

Judal grinds his teeth before snatching his arm away from Aladdin and whirling on his heel, stalking from the room before he can _really_ lose his temper. What gives him the _right?_ Ugh. _Ugh_ , he's never bursting into Laem again like this; having Yunan here and so _obnoxiously_ makes him twitch like a bloody camel that can't get a fly off of its back.

 

Sinbad spares one look for Yunan, a raise of his eyebrows that promises he’ll be back, before jogging after Judal, catching up with him before he can take to the air. “Are you all right? That went about as well as we could have hoped, eh?”

 

"You reek of him." There's a low, sharp warning to Judal's voice. "How could you, knowing who he _is,_ how he hates me?" 

 

“He and I have history. He raised my first dungeon,” Sinbad reminds Judal, an edge of warning in his own voice. “You act as if I _didn’t_ sway his opinion in your favor!”

 

"If it meant you wouldn't have his rukh sticking to you like a goddamn _net_ , I'd rather you hadn't!" Judal snaps. "Do you _want_ him to try and choose you? I'll be that strong eventually, why do you always have to have everything _right now?_ " 

 

Sinbad’s eyes narrow, and his hand shoots out to slam against the wall, preventing Judal from walking any farther. “Was I speaking to thin air? You are my Magi, and I’ll have _no other_. I don’t care if you _never_ have his power, you’re _mine_ , and just because I like the way he looks facedown on a desk doesn’t change that!”

 

Judal's chest heaves from the effort it takes to bite his tongue and shove down a dozen old insecurities. _But you_ did _want Aladdin first. You were sending Scheherazade letters, trying to woo her the whole time I was in your bed begging you._

 

_I bet you were upset, when Yunan didn't pick you after leading you to that dungeon._

 

"Get out of my way." 

 

With a tight, controlled sigh, Sinbad lowers his arm. “Will you leave me now, Judal? Am I not still your king?”

 

"Where the hell else am I supposed to go?" is Judal's tense mutter, wavering where he stands in spite of himself. "Sorry I don't look as good over your desk, you _do_ like them with light hair, don't you?"

 

Sinbad’s eyes narrow, and he folds his arms over his chest. “I’ve taken hundreds of women and three men to my bed in all the time you’ve known me,” he says, equal parts annoyed and mystified by the sudden jealousy. “No matter that I don’t neglect you for them, you only get jealous like this when it’s a man. Why?”

 

 _If you don't get it by now, then you're even more of an idiot than I am._ "I'm not jealous. I'm just--it's Yunan, so I'm mad because I hate him." 

 

Sinbad struggles to think of something that isn’t blatantly rude, but damn it, he doesn’t _like_ being told who to keep in his bed, not by anyone. _Especially_ not when it had been good, amusing, stress relief of the kind he’d _needed_ after tending to Judal’s moods over the last several months, and it had helped Judal besides. “I could tell you to stay out of my bed while my aura offends you so,” he says quietly, “but you never visit it while Aladdin’s is available. So I suppose you need not concern yourself.”

 

"That's--"

 

 _Not true?_ But it is, though there's a _reason_ for it. Why _should_ he pick the bed of someone that would abandon him at the drop of a hat if Ja'far came to the door, seeking companionship? 

 

 _Sinbad doesn't get it. He's never been anyone's second choice--anyone's_ last _choice._

 

 _That's_ an even more bitter shift to his mood, and the flutter of black rukh pooling about his ankles quickens. "Yeah. I guess not." _Though I don't want to talk to Aladdin right now, either. All of you, just leave me alone._  

 

As soon as it had come, that swift, sour, unfamiliar pang of jealousy evaporates, leaving Sinbad only annoyed with himself. “I don’t _care_ ,” he mutters, suddenly unable to look at Judal-- _pathetic, Sinbad, that you should be jealous of a child, the emotion doesn’t suit you._ “I’ve never minded that you prefer his company, even when you have him in my bed. But every time I see you, you or _someone_ demands that I prove my love, when I’ve done so a hundred times! What more do you want? Roses and a bridal dowry?”

 

 _Anger_ wells up again, fast and swift, and Judal _can't_ bite his tongue this time, not when it _hurts_. " _You_ don't care? Well, fine, I don't either! I get it, all right? I really do. I've been around you long enough to _see_ that you don't have any _reason_ to care, not when you've got someone as smart as Ja'far, or now, someone as powerful as Yunan. I _get it_. I'm not _that_ stupid. I--" He swallows hard. "I don't _want_ anything from you." _Just act like I'm your first choice for once, that it's not an act, that you're not just doing it to_ keep _me and_ humor _me. Well, fine, I can act like that, too._ "I don't _need_ it, either. Aladdin is enough." 

 

“You--”

 

Sinbad bites his tongue, and he feels the crackle of magic longing to stir, whenever he’s truly upset. He shoves it down _hard_ , unclenches his hands no matter how they want to ball into fists. “I meant that I don’t _mind_. Do you want me to be jealous? I’m not that man! I would have you in my bed every night from now until the stars blaze out.” He gives in to his impulses now, grabbing Judal’s arms and holding him tight. “And I would have said the same the first night I met you, when you were nothing but black.”

 

"You're a liar." Oh. Oh, he thinks he might have made a very big mistake. _God, I really am an idiot._ Still, the facts remain, and his lower lip trembles as Judal shakes his head hard. "I don't… I'm not _asking_ you to be jealous, I don't want you to be, you just--you've never--" He shivers, looking down. "Just don't… _lie_ to me. You do it all the time, because you think it makes me feel better. It doesn't, and I _know_ anyway. You'd have _Ja'far_ in your bed every night over me. So… so I'm sorry, if Aladdin makes you mad, even at all, but--at least he'd pick me first, out of anyone." 

 

Maybe it really is no use.

 

Sinbad’s hands fall to his sides, and he turns away, shaking his head. “I asked you to be my Magi. I’ll have no other. For the rest…” He takes in a deep breath, exhaling as he looks up to the sky, raking a hand back through his hair. “You know where I am.” He walks off, towards his rooms, a slow, steady step. Before he turns the corner he shrugs, and almost helplessly says, “I miss you, when you aren’t by my side.”

 

It doesn't matter what he says, does it?

 

"… Okay," is the tired, defeated reply before Judal simply turns his back. _He doesn't get it, he never has, it doesn't matter what I say or how I say it, he never will feel the same, anyway_. 


	5. Chapter 5

He needs to get away from the palace. 

 

It reeks of Yunan, and the city of Scheherazade, and _ugh_ , it grates on him until he wants to pull his hair out. The beach is hardly better, but it'll do for now, and there's always a chance of the tide rising high enough to drown him or bury him in wet sand forever. 

 

Maybe _he's_ the one that doesn't get it. Maybe Sinbad isn't lying--except that he is, he's broken those words and promises before, as far back as that night prior to Partevia when Sinbad had failed to meet him as he said he would and god, he'd been _punished_ for straying from their mission there that night just to see some man--

 

Judal sighs and flops to the side, knees curled to his chest. He quits. He's awful at this Magi thing, anyway.

 

Half an hour later, the sand stirs in little whorls, settling gently as one of Aladdin’s bare feet touches the ground, followed by the rest of him. He sits in silence, staring out at the waves, watching the fish jump up for their supper of insects. Once, he glances over at Judal, a few feet away, then back at the sea. “Do you need anything I can do?”

 

"Hold my head under water." 

 

Aladdin leans back, letting the sand trickle through his toes and fingers. The sea smells good, more salt spray than fish, and even the setting sun warms his skin. “Anything else?”

 

"Not really." 

 

It takes a few moments, but Judal eventually scoots himself closer, dropping his head down to lay his head into Aladdin's lap. "Am I really that horrible?" 

 

Aladdin’s hand comes up to stroke gently over coarse black hair. “No.” Blunt fingernails scratch against Judal’s scalp, and Aladdin breathes in time with the waves.

 

"… Then why…" Judal hesitates, thinking and frowning. "If I'm not horrible… then I'm just not _enough_." 

 

Aladdin closes his eyes. _What would you do, Ugo? You made me feel better when I thought no one cared about me._ “I think,” he says slowly, picking his words, “people have different holes in their hearts. And...some people have more than others.” He smiles, leaning down to nuzzle against Judal’s hair. “My Judal-shaped hole is really big.”

 

 _That_ makes him crack a little bit of a smile. "That's good. Because… sometimes, it feels like Sinbad doesn't have much of one at all for me… even though I _know_ that's not true, I just…" He sighs tiredly, burying his face down into Aladdn's thigh. "It makes me so _mad_. And it hurts. And no matter what I tell him… it just… he doesn't seem to get it. Or maybe he does, and he just doesn't care, and likes reminding me that I'm not as smart as him. I don't know which, but he always makes me feel like I'm the one that's wrong, all the same." 

 

Aladdin worries at his lip. “I don’t like it when you’re sad, and I _don’t_ think you’re wrong. Maybe…” 

 

He smiles, but it’s sort of a sad smile. “But I don’t get a lot of people things still. Maybe I could ask Alibaba. I don’t know, maybe it’s a Magi thing.” He makes a face. “But I don’t want to ask Yunan or Scheherazade.”

 

"… You get people a lot more than you think you do." Judal heaves another sigh. "I think I'm just messed up. I got really mad at him, and told him that I didn't need him at all and I really, really didn't mean that. That happens a lot. I just… I don't know what to _say_ to him, sometimes. It's why I usually don't bother now." 

 

“Talking about feelings is hard,” Aladdin agrees. “I’d rather talk about food and just...do feelings. Like when you and me are together, I...do you want me to talk more? I can call you my pretty flower like I do to the girls, if you want. You’re as pretty as they are.”

 

" _That's_ the problem," Judal says suddenly. "He complains about having to _say it_ , but I don't really _want_ him to. I wouldn't ask him to if he wouldn't--just--" He waves a hand, irritated. "Show me. In the right way, and stuff. I mean, wouldn't you be mad, if some other person came to the door when we were just laying in bed together and asked to go do something, and I just… got up and left and was _happy_ about it?" 

 

Aladdin leans down, butting his head against Judal’s shoulder. “You don’t make me mad. I know you’ll always come back.”

 

"… I guess Sinbad does, too," is the eventual, begrudging response. He rolls face down, splaying himself half-across Aladdin's lap. "Was I wrong to be mad about him sleeping with Yunan, too?" 

 

Aladdin frowns at that. “I don’t know. Why were you mad? That’s a big part of it, you know.”

 

"Because he acted like he wanted to take my king. And Sinbad has never… exactly… been _set_ on having me, you know," Judal mumbles. "He wanted Scheherazade for a long time. Then you."

 

Aladdin cocks his head. “But what does that have to do with sleeping together?”

 

"Because it's just one more way for Yunan to act _possessive_ of him! Ugh, also, it's gross," Judal shudders. "I hate feeling his rukh all over Sinbad, makes my skin crawl." 

 

Aladdin makes a face. “His rukh is really weird,” he agrees. “It feels weird, and I can’t even see it. It got all over me when I went down to his house, but I think I got it all off on my way home to you.”

 

"I didn't feel it on you," Judal confirms, frowning at the realization that he didn't see it around Yunan, either. "… Really weird," he mutters, heaving a long sigh. "Whatever. I should just… apologize and get it over with or something. I don't know why Sinbad makes me so mad, but he _does_." 

 

“Alibaba makes me really mad too. Oh, I should probably get back there.” Aladdin’s mouth twists. “Yunan wants to judge him next, and I’m not...sure how that’s going to go. I promised him I’d be there.”

 

"I don't like kings anymore." Judal huffs as he pushes himself upright. "Why can't you just be my king? You're a lot easier." 

 

“We should be each others’ kings.” Aladdin grins, and butts his head against Judal’s shoulder. “And the only citizens. And the Magi.” He sighs. “I just want him to be what I know he can be.”

 

"… Sinbad has always been what I wanted him to be, but sometimes I wish he was a little… less," Judal admits. _Then maybe I'd feel more useful, less a burden, less a hindrance, more something you were proud of, and maybe you'd want only_ me _at your side_ … 

 

He's probably getting sick from all the stress. That's a fever dream, if he's ever realized one. "Go on, then," he sighs, waving Aladdin away. "Don't let Yunan eat him or whatever he does."

 

Aladdin stands, brushing off the sand, and pulls Judal up after him. “The good thing,” he says, gone cheerful again, “is that we’ll have a really long time to figure them out and change them. Yunan and Solomon had hundreds of years. Maybe by _then_ we’ll all figure it out!”

 

"I'm a lot more impatient than you," Judal quietly says, though it's a little hard not to smile. "But yeah. Maybe you're right." 

 

“That’s okay, you have me to wait with,” Aladdin says, and gives Judal a soft kiss on the lips before taking to the air, heading back to the palace and the waiting judgment.

 

That makes it a little easier, for sure.

 

And anyway, when it comes down to it, Judal doesn't _mind_ being the one that often relents in these kinds of things. He's kind of selfish, a lot a baby, a _whole lot_ stupid, and so he's mostly embarrassed, annoyed with himself by the time he slinks back to the palace, the sun already down as he creeps into Sinbad's window and makes _sure_ the man is alone. 

 

He doesn't want to talk about it. It never comes out right, it never makes him sound anything like an idiotic, jealous lover, and so he silently curls up on the edge of Sinbad's bed, not even bothering to burrow his way under the covers, lest Sinbad ask him to leave outright. 

 

Sinbad doesn’t quite smile. The relief is too great for that, the anxiety that had kept him awake finally ebbing away with Judal’s presence and he flips back the blankets, grabbing Judal and firmly settling him in the crook of his arms. He’d known that Judal would come back _eventually_ , but maybe this would have been one of those times he’d disappeared for months after murdering a houseguest. This is better.

 

He'd be a liar to say he isn't a bit surprised when Sinbad does that.

 

Still, there's no stopping the long, shuddery sigh of relief, the way his face buries into Sinbad's neck and the way his hands come up to curl against his chest. "Sorry." It's kind of like lead on his tongue, but he doesn't care. "Sorry, I just… the whole Yunan thing… he really puts me on edge and…"

 

“I didn’t expect it,” Sinbad murmurs, rubbing his cheek against Judal’s hair. “I haven’t seen him since I was fourteen. And all you’d told me is that you thought he was angry at you. I thought I was helping.”

 

"The way his rukh is on you--it's like he's _trying_ to piss me off, like he _really_ wants to take you." This part he can explain, at least, and Judal exhales a frantic little huff, his own rukh fluttering upward, sharply possessive. "I don't like it, you're mine."

 

“Yes I am,” Sinbad agrees without hesitation. “I told him that before I even brought you in.” He frowns, eyes flickering around, trying without success (as usual) to see his own rukh. “Can you get it off me?”

 

"I'll bite it off, if I have to," Judal mutters, though probably easier is picking it off piece by piece and flicking it away like week-old trash. "… I didn't mean it, by the way." This is the last time he'll try, he tells himself. The last time he's going to bring it up. "About Aladdin. And not needing you and…" he sighs, frowning as he focuses on the task at hand, finding that helps him collect his thoughts a little better. "A lot of things. I just… sometimes, it's hard to say what I mean around you," he tries instead. "You think really fast, even if sometimes it's wrong, so you don't give me a chance, and I just get mad… and make it a lot worse." 

 

Sinbad closes his eyes, trying to really _hear_ , trying to hear what’s behind the words, what’s to be _done_ , trying to figure out what he’s done wrong--because he’s hurt Judal somehow, and he doesn’t like the idea of _anyone_ doing that. “You are...difficult for me to understand, sometimes,” he says at last. “The things I feel for you--I don’t put them into words often or well.” 

 

He sighs, burying his face down into Judal’s hair. “You are to me what no one else could be. When I disappoint you, when you flee because I stumble over my words...I fear for myself, without you. I…” 

 

This is _difficult_. 

 

“I need you too. I’ll try to listen more.”

 

Judal relaxes a little at that, even as he frowns, his eyes lidding where he buries his face into Sinbad's shoulder in-between plucking at each little piece of Yunan's rukh that sticks to Sinbad like glue. He's not sure if he should ask. He's never been sure if he should ask, even after all of these years, and again and again, he's bitten his tongue, but where has that gotten him? _Here, and miserable every time I think about it_. "… Do you care about Ja'far more than me?" he finally says, hoping, _hoping_ he doesn't sound as petty and ridiculous as he did earlier. "It's okay if you do. I just… want to know,  you know? I've never been able to figure it out, and it hurts, when I think that you don't and then you do something else that makes me think you do." 

 

“Is that what this is about?” 

 

Instead of brushing Judal off as he always does, assured in the notion that such a thing is ridiculous on so many levels, he stops, trying to pick his words. “I...I don’t know. I care about you differently. Ja’far is my dearest friend, and my advisor. You are my Magi.”

 

That’s as simple as it is for him. He struggles a bit with his words, frowning. “That’s how I think of it. I adore you both. No more, no less.”

 

"… Oh," Judal slowly replies, attempting to wrap his mind around that. Hmm. "I've never really thought about it like that before," he admits. "So every time you sort of… went off with him instead of with me, it felt like I had done something wrong."

 

Sinbad blinks. “You did? It never occurred to me that you would think that.”

 

"I think that's pretty obvious now," Judal mumbles. "But that's how it always was everywhere else."

 

Sinbad leans down, tightening his arms around Judal, nuzzling his nose down into Judal’s hair. “You’re with me now. And I’d rather you stay with me than go everywhere else ever again. Can you handle it, if I think of you as different, yet no less in my heart?”

 

"… I think so." Judal frowns, butting his head against Sinbad's chest. "Especially when you say things like that. I still might get jealous, though, I can't help it."

 

“That’s fine.” Sinbad smiles, hands curling around Judal’s back, stroking gently. “You can be as angry with me as you want, as long as you don’t expect me to be other than I am.”

 

"At least Ja'far isn't like Yunan," he immediately says, and irritably flicks at another piece of rukh. "I don't like the way he smells. I don't like the way he smells on _you_. I don't like his rukh, and I don't like him. I hate that he and Scheherazade are here."  

 

“Yunan isn’t so bad,” Sinbad says mildly. “You just need to give up on understanding why he does things, and he’s not bad to be around. I owe him a great debt--why are you so upset about them being here, apart from not liking them? He’s said they don’t intend to hurt you or me or Sindria.”

 

"It's like…" Judal's brow furrows, trying to put it to words. It's _easy_ to explain to Aladdin, or at least, the notion of it. Aladdin has never had Scheherazade or Yunan in Balbadd. "It's like having another king show up," he finally settles upon, "and sit in your throne, and try to control your generals. It never was that way with Aladdin, because he doesn't touch my things, and even when he does, it's to help, not hinder. Yunan and Scheherazade showed up and deliberately messed with my shields, and let their rukh get everywhere and touch everything. Even you." He lifts his head. "Sindria's _mine_. Not any other Magi's, but mine." 

 

Sinbad sighs, and he shrugs a little as best he can. “That makes sense. You know there’s little I can do to make them leave, don’t you? I don’t have anywhere near the power that just Yunan possesses, not all my generals and me combined. The best bet is to make him happy until he leaves of his own accord.”

 

"I know, but what if he wants to _stay?_ " Judal shudders at the thought. "I can barely deal with it now, it makes me _itch_. And his rukh is weird, Aladdin thinks so, too." 

 

“He doesn’t. Probably. I don’t know how I know, but I know.” Sinbad snorts. “Unless I’m wrong, he wants to finish up his judgment, collect his friend’s child, and probably suck me off, then leave.”

 

"… The last part though." 

 

“What about it?”

 

"… I'm better at it, he doesn't know you like I do," Judal settles upon grumpily. "Apparently, he was all over Aladdin, too. What's _with_ that guy?"

 

“His king died hundreds of years ago,” Sinbad says, and at least this time the jealousy is cute rather than obnoxious. “Imagine how devastatingly lonely he is.”

 

"That still doesn't mean he can just… be all over everyone _I_ like." Though Judal supposes he _can_ , because Yunan is so stupidly, ridiculously powerful. He sighs, head falling back in frustration. "Ugggh. How do I get that strong? I'd throw him out of Sindria into the ocean, make him look even more like he just rolled out of bed." 

 

Sinbad can’t help but laugh. “You will be. In a thousand years, you will be, and then a young upstart Magi will be angry that you’re all over everyone _they_ like.” He pauses, amused. “Though I doubt you’ll be quite the whore Yunan is.”

 

"Mmnn, I'm picky," Judal agrees with a huff. "I'll just keep you, I like you the most." 

 

“I’m going to sleep with him again,” Sinbad warns. “Probably. You can pick my rukh clean or whatever afterwards.”

 

"… I might go out of the country for the day or something," Judal crossly replies. "I can feel it, too. He's not subtle." 

 

“Mmm, no he isn’t,” Sinbad rumbles appreciatively. “Ah, but you shouldn’t go too far. Don’t want him to think you’re delinquent or anything, not while he’s still got his judging cap on.”

 

"Then tell me something to do, and I'll act busy," Judal sighs out. "I just can't sit around and feel all of that going on… oi, don't look so damn _happy_ about having sex with him," he adds, jabbing Sinbad in the chest with a finger.

 

Sinbad grins sheepishly. “Sorry. It was something of a surprise. You know I love surprises.”

 

" _You're_ kind of a whore." 

 

“Except I’m the one that pays, how is that fair?”

 

"That sort of makes you even more of one." Judal bats his eyelashes. "And you don't have to pay me, aren't you glad?" 

 

“Given how much I’ve spent on food and clothing and gifts for you,” Sinbad rumbles, rolling over to pin Judal underneath him, “you should be singing a much more agreeable tune.”

 

"Mmn, but you do that anyway, not for sex," Judal points out with a pout as he stretches beneath him, draping his arms lazily around Sinbad's back. "And I'm always happy about it, aren't I? Some people are so ungrateful." 

 

“Yunan was grateful.” Sinbad leans down, brushing a kiss across Judal’s forehead. “He let you live.”

 

Judal's frown returns. "… I thought so, too, but then I thought about it more. He can't kill me--not unless he wants to go against Solomon's laws himself. Not _yet_ , anyway," he amends, wincing. "If I was like I was before, when I was with Al-Sarmen… that's different. But if he wanted to kill me, he'd have to kill you, and Ja'far, and a lot of other people." 

 

“Hmm. That’s good to know.” Sinbad rolls off and to the side, eyes already starting to droop. “He could have made your life difficult, though. Or set you painful tests.”

 

"Yeah, I guess." Judal curls himself up against the other man. "Don't go around giving him a lot of presents, though. I'll really be jealous, then."

 

He sleeps better than he has in months.

 

A dozen stressors off of his mind, and it's a lot easier to sprawl himself over Sinbad's bed and sleep the sleep of the dead, warmed by Sinbad's own body an inelegant sprawl next to his own. It's a nice way to wake up, even if it's too early for his tastes, and he quickly realizes _why_ when he shifts and groans, skin slick with sweat and cock throbbing between his legs.

 

Must've been some nice dreams, now that he's not having nightmares about creepy eyes staring at him. 

 

Sleepily, Judal rolls to the side, wriggling his way up against Sinbad's back, sighing at the slick drag of his cock against the other man's bare skin. Between the two of them, they always end up losing all of their clothes when they sleep, and it's reasons like this that it's _good_. 

 

Sinbad is having _good_ dreams.

 

He blinks sleepily, feeling the hard drag of Judal’s cock against him, and a lazy grin spreads over his face. He reaches a hand back, petting through Judal’s hair, his own cock rising easily in the morning. “Someone’s eager this morning.” It takes little effort to turn around, stroking a hand through Judal’s hair. “Need your king’s attention?”

 

Judal's eyes lid, and he twists his head, nibbling a little along the other man's wrist. "Yeah," he sighs, exhaling long and hot when his hips jut forward, his own cock sliding hard against Sinbad's. "Hey. Let me put it in, I really want to." 

 

Sinbad blinks, considerably more awake now. It’s hardly the request he’d been anticipating this early in the morning. “You do? Are you...sure?”

 

Never mind that it’s been years and years since he’s done anything of the sort, and had hardly planned on doing it again, no matter that he’d enjoyed himself thoroughly. “You’ve never shown the slightest inclination…”

 

"So?" Judal mutters, his cheek rubbing against Sinbad's hand with a little sigh. "You wouldn't let Yunan do it, would you? So let me."

 

_Ah, that’s what this is about._

 

Sinbad has a brief flicker of apprehension--god, but this takes him back to his younger days, knowing nothing, trusting in other, better men to tell him how to behave, taking pleasure from their pleasure--then shrugs. “All right.”

 

Judal's face lights up, and he pounces immediately, shoving Sinbad onto his back as he wriggles his way up between the man's legs. "I'll make it really good," he promises, sighing into Sinbad's neck as he nips and sucks at the arc of his throat. "Every time you put it in me, it's always been really good, too." 

 

Immediately, it’s worth it. Judal is hot and hard against him, and Sinbad grins up, tangling a hand in Judal’s hair and yanking him down for a hard kiss. Then he wriggles, turning over onto his stomach and raising up onto his hands and knees. “Can you do it like this?” he asks, and ah, he hadn’t expected his breath to catch a little at just asking the question. “I’m not so flexible as in my youth.”

 

"You're just making excuses to _really_ act like a whore," Judal dismissively sighs, even as he leans over to trail kisses down Sinbad's spine, his cock sliding hard and eager against the curve of Sinad's ass. His fingers splay over Sinbad's waist before deliberately, he slides back, biting at the back of a thigh. "Guess I won't complain _too_ much, though. Mnn, grab the oil, it's closer to you." 

 

The words send a hard shiver through Sinbad, unexpected enough that it makes his toes curl, his head bow down, and he mindlessly obeys, grabbing the oil and handing it back wordlessly. _I should be more embarrassed about this_ , he thinks, even though he _is_ , a little. He swallows hard, hands fisting in the sheets as he scoots his knees farther apart.

 

It's hardly the reaction Judal expects--truth be told, he didn't expect Sinbad to let him do this _at all_ , so all of this is _nice_. He grins slowly, thumb popping the cork out from the bottle. " _Look_ at you. If I didn't know any better, you wanted me to do this awhile ago." The oil is slick when it pools into the dip of Sinbad's lower back, and Judal drags his fingers through it, massaging through the tense, shivery muscles there before sliding further south, dragging down the cleft of Sinbad's ass before he slowly wriggles one long finger inside. "And like this, even… on your hands and knees. You must really want me inside you nice and deep, huh?" 

 

A hard shudder starts at the base of Sinbad’s spine, rippling through his whole body as he clenches down, the sensation unfamiliar enough after all these years that he can’t help but bite back a groan. He wants to protest that it isn’t that, it’s just _easier_ this way, that his legs don’t start to cramp and ache from being spread for so long, but his mouth doesn’t obey. At least part of him wants to rile Judal up, to feel him lose control, and if he’s going to do this, he’s damned well going to get whatever he can out of it.

 

“Really deep,” he says, voice hoarse already, and he squirms on that finger. “Ah--been a long time. Make sure and…” He swallows hard. “Give me all of it.”

 

Is this what _he_ sounds like, begging for _Sinbad's_ cock? If so, then damn. Judal swallows hard, fingers squeezing tight about the man's hip, and he drags his hand back just enough to better slide a second--then a third finger inside, too fast, probably, but if he's guessing right (he is), then Sinbad will like it. 

 

"I'll give you all of it," he promises, leaning over the other man's back and nuzzling aside his hair to bite and suck on the back of his neck, over his shoulders, his own breath hot and ragged as his hips lurch forward with the twist and press of his fingers to slide his cock against the inside of one thigh. "You're gonna feel really good around my cock. I always like it… ahh, when you pull my hair, want me to yank on yours, too?" 

 

Sinbad’s breath catches at the _stretch_ of it, swallowing hard as he pushes back; now that he’s felt it again, god, he wants more. He shoves back against Judal’s hand, eyelids fluttering at the feeling of fulness, that odd, stretching tension as he rubs back against the hard line of Judal’s cock, so different when they’re like this. He nods, a bit frantically, and no matter that he intends his voice to come out in a growl, it’s more of a moan than anything. “Just--put it in, god, that’s what you want, isn’t it?” _It’s what I want._

 

"You really are a slut," Judal affectionately teases, even as his own breath catches hard, fingers twisting, curling one last time before he slowly slides them out. "Gonna remember that, the next time I'm begging and you're teasing me," he mutters, wrapping an oil slick hand over his own cock, stroking once before guiding it to Sinbad's hole. The initial _press_ is enough to make his breath stutter and his chest heave, and _god_ , feeling his king's body spread around the head of his cock, stretch out so tight and slick that his eyes roll back--

 

"Really good," he pants out as his hips slide forward with one long, slick thrust, bent over Sinbad's back to press a sloppy, open-mouthed kiss to the man's shoulders. "You're… just… _really_ good," Judal mumbles, fisting a hand into Sinbad's hair to yank as he'd offered, close enough to the scalp to pull his head back without being too sharp about it as his hips rut forward in an eager roll. 

 

This is _more_ than Sinbad had expected.

 

He always forgets, how this breaks him apart, makes him feel helpless, _wanton_ , every bit of him wanting more, more of that odd sensation of being _stuffed full_ , more of Judal’s hands yanking his head back, more of those filthy, mocking words in his ears. He squeezes down, eyes half-shut in surrender, the muscles in his back rippling as he arches up off the bed. “More,” he sighs, even though it’s already too much, too fast, and he can’t catch his breath for the life of him.

 

“G-god--you’ve wanted this for, ah, a while, right?” Sinbad somehow manages to ask, hands fisting hard, nails tearing little holes in the sheets as he shoves back, mouth falling open at the slide of Judal’s cock so deep inside him. “Go on, take--take what you want, _take me_ \--”

 

A last pull on Sinbad's hair yanks him back into the next hard, rough slap of his hips before Judal's hands slide away to better grip his sides, liking the way the man's twitching, trembling muscles feel in his grasp, liking _better_ how he can grip hard until he nearly bruises, using that hold to drag Sinbad back onto his cock with every thrust. 

 

"Didn't think you'd _sound_ as much like a slut as you do," Judal breathlessly taunts, mouth dragging over every bit of skin he can reach--over broad shoulders, the back of Sinbad's neck, down his spine, kissing and sucking and _biting_ , biting _hard_ when he can't help himself and he shoves in so deep that his own skin flushes hotter still, his cock twitching within the tight, slick heat of Sinbad's body. "God," he breathes, glancing down and biting his lip at the sight of Sinbad's body stretched around him, every quiver and twitch of his body making him grind in harder, _deeper_. "Doesn't matter how we do it, you're still really good." 

 

That drags a breathless laugh out of Sinbad, and he nods, collapsing gratefully down onto his forearms, all the better for more leverage to shove himself back onto Judal’s cock. “You too,” he groans, “good, good in me.” _You remind me why I used to like this._

 

He spreads his knees farther apart until his legs ache, and he could have done it on his back anyway for all of that but this is _better_ , imagining Judal above him, that lovely, slinky body holding him tight and feeling every hard, deep thrust into him, liquid heat fizzling up his spine and making him pant into the sheets. “Can be--a slut if you want me to be.” If there’s one thing Sinbad loves, sitting on his throne or writhing on his Magi’s cock, it’s pleasing his partners. The words are as rusty as the rest of him is at this, but he still remembers them faintly, and the glorious submission from the way they dripped off his tongue. “Harder, fuck me like a whore….”

 

It's with a low, growling groan that Judal simply drags a hand up Sinbad's back, shoving hard between his shoulders to press his face to the bed. It's easier, then, to shove in hard, to fist a hand up through his hair and _hold_ Sinbad there as he fucks him, panting into the crook of his shoulder, occasionally biting, sucking hard to add marks on top of marks and oh, _god_ , Sinbad feels _good_ \--

 

Too good, really, and there's no _helping_ how fast his body surrenders to it. Judal sucks in a breath, sharp and fast, his eyes fluttering as he thrusts in as deep, as hard as he can until his body gratefully, desperately gives in, spilling hot and slick inside of Sinbad's body, his vision blurring and his entire body a shivering, _aching_ thing.

 

That’s all it takes.

 

The slick, hot pulse of Judal’s cock inside him is too much, simply too _much_ , and Sinbad ruts down helplessly into the bed, following hard on his heels though he normally likes to _wait_ , and there’s no such thing as waiting now when he’s _used_ and _full_ and _fucked_.

 

He presses a cheek down into the sheets, gulping in air, tense muscles slowly, slowly relaxing, and somehow that makes the press of Judal’s cock inside him so much more lewd. Sinbad doesn’t feel like a king right now, with his face shoved into the sheets, but he feels _good_. “Surprised,” he murmurs, fingers slowly unclenching from the sheets, “it took you so long, if you wanted it so much.”

 

"Never really thought about it before," Judal breathlessly admits, grinning languidly as he drags his lips up Sinbad's spine, doting on the skin with little kisses and bites. "Just wanted to right now. Must've been a good dream." Slowly, hissing out a breath, he pulls out, rolling to the side with an inelegant flop. "Ahhh, a really good one." 

 

“Mm,” Sinbad murmurs in agreement, sighing as he rolls over onto his back, reaching for a soft cloth by the side of the bed to wipe himself down. “Better waking, I think.”

 

"Yeah. And you look like you got _mauled_ ," Judal rather gleefully notes as his eyes sweep down Sinbad's body. 

 

“Rude,” Sinbad grumbles, shoving Judal’s shoulder to make him roll over. “You just want Yunan and Ja’far to see me like this.”

 

"Yep, but I also just like it," Judal cheerfully replies, flopping over. "Let me bite you some more, come on." 

 

Sinbad raises an eyebrow. “Are you saying you want to go another round so soon? I thought only I had stamina like that. Usually you’re sweating and begging for mercy by now.”

 

"I didn't say I wanted to _fuck you_ , just that I wanted to bite you. And don't be mean, I have better stamina than anyone else you go at it with." Judal sighs, stretching out slowly. "You can have at me, though. I'll just nibble on your shoulder a _little_ , you taste good."

 

Sinbad grins, rolling on top of Judal and yanking his legs open. “You taste better. And you sound so _sweet_ when I’m inside of you.” He hands Judal the oil, eyes alight. “Stretch yourself out for me, I want to see you bend.”

 

Judal shivers hard at that, his eyes lidding as he uncorks the bottle again. "I dunno, you taste really good," he murmurs, fingers dripping and slick as they slide between his own legs, and he shivers, twisting to better press a pair of fingers at his own hole before letting them sink inside with a long, drawn-out sigh. "Jealous of how flexible I am, old man?" he lowly teases, arching his back on purpose to wriggle down onto his own hand with a ragged little gasp. 

 

“Not jealous. Just making use of.” Sinbad’s eyes lid, and he watches, fingers stroking over himself as he watches Judal writhe. “No one looks better than you taking cock,” he murmurs. “Though I think Yunan is more of a whore.”

 

He can't help but breathlessly laugh, and Judal bites his own lip as he slowly adds another finger, eyes fluttering and chest heaving from the stretch that makes his toes curl. "Mmnn… dunno. I can be a really good whore for you."

 

Sinbad grins. “Not like him. What would you do, if I asked you to be my whore?” he asks, voice teasing as he strokes himself to full hardness, reaching up another hand to pinch and tease at a nipple.

 

Judal groans, his head rolling back as he lazily arches his chest up into Sinbad's hand, pressing his fingers in deeper, stroking and twisting until his eyes roll and his legs splay wide with every shiver that rakes up his spine. "God, whatever you wanted, why do I have to _specify?"_ he whines. "Why, what does _he_ do?" Morbid curiosity, so help him.

 

“Hmm…” Sinbad thinks, and grasps Judal’s hand, pulling his fingers free and sliding his cock in, hissing at the sudden tight clench of Judal around him. “Begged me to fuck him over the throne,” he says with a lazy grin. “Told me to ride him like a mare, and use him as just a hole to fuck. He was very convincing.”

 

He'd comment, but it's very, _very_ difficult to when Sinbad's cock is sinking into him, making him buck and arch and hiss a breath out through clenched teeth as his eyes roll back into his head. "I'm… a better hole," Judal shamelessly pants out, reaching up with grabby, desperate fingers to claw at Sinbad's back and draw him in closer, the thick, long press of his cock making him whimper and shudder as his body quivers around him. "I'll ride _you_ on your throne, in front of everyone, and you can shove me to my knees afterwards and make me suck you off." 

 

That image is enough to make Sinbad’s hips slam forward harder than he’d meant to, cock throbbing, _aching_ at the image. “In front of everyone?” he breathes, hands clenching Judal’s waist tight enough that he can _feel_ the press of his cock inside. “You want everyone to see that you belong to me, hmm? Everyone to see how you look on your knees?”

 

Judal nearly shrieks, his voice breaking raggedly and his muscles nearly _cramping_ at how deep Sinbad presses inside of him, the squeeze of his hands only making it worse--or is it _better?_ He moans, head lolling back as he squirms, humping down against Sinbad's cock as his legs splay wide. "Y-yeah. God, let _everyone_ see," he breathes. "You can come all over my face, mark me up really good, even when I'm still dripping and _messy_ from where you've been inside of me."

 

Sinbad’s hands slide down from Judal’s waist to his hips, holding him tight, holding them in the air as he slams in again and again, rougher than he’d intended but lost now, lost at the mention, at the _thought_ of doing what Judal had suggested. “You’d look--pretty like that,” he grunts. “All covered in my seed and leaking--everyone could see--how hard it made you--”

 

That’s too much, and with a groan he buries himself hard inside Judal, teeth sinking into a pale shoulder as he fills the Magi, fingers digging in far too hard, bruising his hips.

 

Ahh, god, that's _good_. There's little that gets him off harder than just having Sinbad come inside of him, with every hard, aching inch of him shoved in as deep as he can be. Judal shudders hard, squirming down against him, arching his back to rub his still too-sensitive cock against Sinbad's stomach, just a few more times until he twitches helplessly as he comes, sagging down into the bed with a ragged, mindless noise. 

 

"… Do I win the contest?" he dimly replies, flopping his head back. "Even if I don't wanna be a mare." 

 

That draws a weary laugh from Sinbad, and he pulls out, leaning down to kiss Judal on the forehead. “Yes, you win.”

 

He gathers Judal up into his arms, hooking his chin over his shoulder, nestling under the blankets. “Besides, I don’t want you to be anyone but you.”

 

"… Not even a worm?" is the low, playful retort as Judal snuggles closer, teeth set gently to Sinbad's shoulder for an affectionate bite.

 

“Not even a worm. Well. Sometimes a worm. But I’d rather keep you happy enough that you don’t have to be a worm.”

 

"Sometimes, I like being a worm when I'm happy, though. And I'm converting everyone to the worm kingdom, now we just have to get Ja'far to do it." 

 

Sinbad snorts. “If you can do that, you’re more powerful than Yunan any day.”

 

"This is now my mission. _You just wait._ "

 

~~~

 

When it all comes down to it, there isn’t too much to pack. A few changes of underclothes, a full cask of water, spare boots, a comb for his hair. Of course, there won’t be any Sphintus to tease him about muscles or lack thereof and take the pack from him.

 

_Stupid, stop thinking about it and just go._

 

His throat hurts from the effort of keeping his temper, and now from the effort of keeping control over himself. He’d known the second Sinbad and Ja’far had offered him a chance to stay that it couldn’t work. Things like that just don’t happen, not to him.

 

He feels the brush of air that means someone else is in the room, and a quick look over his shoulder shows him the king’s advisor. Titus forces a little smile, then turns back to packing. “You shouldn’t have tried to get involved. Milady doesn’t like it. Thank you, though.”

 

 _I got that impression very quickly_ , Ja'far thinks, still rather windblown and tattered around the edges, courtesy of Scheherazade's quick temper the moment he had attempted to negotiate. _You didn't tell me her specialty was wind attacks, Sinbad. Thank you for that, I do so love having my household vessel canceled out the moment I draw it._

 

"Sinbad still needs to speak with her," Ja'far attempts to reassure him as he steps into the room. "Don't pack your things just yet." 

 

“I know my Lady. She wants me to leave soon. If I’m not packed, she’ll take it as another act of rebellion.” Titus buckles the case shut, and takes a long second to breathe, trying to keep from letting the distress show in his voice. “You should tell your king to stand down. It’s fine.”

 

"… It's not fine," Ja'far sighs, making to shut the door behind him. "Titus, you _know_ you are welcome here. Even if you are under her employ, that does not _bind_ you to her. And if she has made you think that, she is wrong. It likens you to a slave, at best, something Sindria simply doesn't tolerate." 

 

“She’s my mother,” Titus says quietly. “And I have responsibilities I’ve been childishly neglecting, as she’s been good enough to remind me.” He forces a smile, even though it falters. “Thank you, for letting me think for a while that I could stay here. You have a beautiful country.”

 

He swallows hard, and holds out his hand, with a piece of folded paper held between his fingers. “If you could...if you wouldn’t mind, when Sphintus gets back…”

 

His throat closes up, and he can’t finish.

 

For a moment, Ja'far considers turning around and finding Sinbad right this instant to make the man _do_ something, far sooner rather than later. "Titus--I'll have a messenger run and find him, you can tell him whatever it is you need to say _yourself_ \--"

 

"There shouldn't be any need for that." 

 

Is it a Magi thing, to avoid using _doors?_ Ja'far is beginning to think so, what with their inclination to sidle in through windows unannounced. Yunan smiles from his perch in Titus's window, offering Ja'far a nod of his head before his attention swiftly settles upon Titus. "Your mother is a bit of a handful. Are you much worse, that she keeps you on such a tight leash?" 

 

Titus cocks his head for a moment, hand twitching to his wand at the unfamiliar energy signature, then relaxes. “You must be the Magi Yunan, am I correct? It’s an honor to meet you, sir,” he says cordially, and bows. 

 

_Back to this. Back to meetings and bowing and not being able to do anything._

 

Yunan's own head tilts slowly. "You _do_ have an interesting rukh about you. How is it, being a magician like yourself in a country like Laem?" 

 

“Laem has a great many magicians,” Titus answers dutifully, “of vast talent and skill. My Lady does me a great honor by recognizing me as chief among them.”

 

"Does that great honor include being eaten by lions?" 

 

The blood drains from Titus’s already pale face, and he turns back to his packing, no matter that the case is already closed. “Of course not. That is a punishment for criminals.”

 

"Really? Because I was given reason to believe that was what she had intended for you… or at least, threatened you with." Yunan slips from the window, stepping further into the room. "With how clear and bright your rukh is," he murmurs, plucking at a piece of it that flutters nervously about, "I have a hard time believing you are a criminal."

 

Titus flips open the case and starts rearranging his luggage, just to give his hands something to do besides shake. Out come the boots and water, and the clothes get folded a second time, more neatly, more tightly. “Milady has never said anything of the kind to me,” he says stiffly, and _gods_ , why won’t the trembling stop? “She has...let it be known that Laem has certain laws, and that in breaking them one would face certain punishments. That’s it.”

 

"Oh? And what would those certain laws be?" Yunan drops himself onto the edge of the bed, smiling. "Forgive me, I've lived in a hole for a few years. I am not so up to date on Laem's policies, and Zadi and I hardly talk politics, besides." 

 

The blood comes back to Titus’s face now in his cheeks, and ah, they _burn_. He avoids Yunan’s face, fitting his water in with more force than necessary. He needs to get _out_ of here, needs to get away from these people with their good intentions and kind words that can’t do anything to help him, and only make things worse by making him think he has a chance. “It doesn’t matter. As you said, I’m no criminal.”

 

"Ah, well. Then people that aren't criminals are certainly entitled to a bit of free will and fun, aren't they?" Yunan muses, leaning back onto one hand. "And from what I saw, there aren't many pressing things going on in Laem that require your services. Wouldn't you like to stay in Sindria a bit longer?"

 

“More than anything.” The words are almost whispered, and Titus lifts an arm to scrub over his eyes, cursing his weakness that won’t let him let this whole thing go. _I should be able to let it go. I should be able to be a good husband to Kougyoku, a good father, a good son._

 

_Maybe there’s too much of Lady Scheherazade in me and not enough...me._

 

"So stay." 

 

 Titus clenches his jaw, and for the first time looks up at the Magi. “It’s not that easy! My Lady has commanded me to return. I have no choice. If I leave, I am a traitor, and the lions are the least of my worries.”

 

Yunan blinks at him. "But it is that easy. Stay, and I will talk to her. _Honestly_ , if you are considered a traitor for taking a little vacation, then Zadi and I truly _do_ need to have words." He glances over to Ja'far with a smile. "Will you inform your king that Titus will be staying a bit longer?" 

 

Ja'far inclines his head. "Of course." If anyone can convince a Magi, it's another Magi, he supposes, sparing Titus a last, worrying glance before slipping from the room. 

 

Titus’s heart beats faster, and his hand clench white-knuckled on his boots before slamming them into the suitcase. “It’s unkind to get my hopes up. As much as I appreciate it, my Lady’s law within Laem is absolute. She is not easily swayed.”

 

"I've known your mother since she was a tiny girl," Yunan brightly offers. "It will be good for her and I to catch up on these things after so long, especially when it comes to Laem's policies. In the meantime, you can relax here in Sindria. Ah, it might be a bit, you might as well unpack." 

 

Hope, the cruelest of emotions, flares in Titus’s chest. He looks up, hardly daring to trust, and no matter how he tries, a few tears escape his eyes. “It doesn’t _matter_ ,” he says quietly, voice hoarse with the effort of keeping it steady. “I’ll have to go back eventually, and then--it doesn’t matter what I do, or how useful I am, or how well-behaved, or how loyal, if I make one _mistake_ \--”

 

"You don't _have_ to do anything." 

 

Yunan reaches out a hand, gently dropping it atop the boy's head. "There are few absolute laws in the world, none of which Scheherazade has ever created," he lowly says. "Should you wish to remain in Sindria, then do so. You are no criminal, as you've said, so as long as they welcome you, then whose choice should it be but your own to remain here?" Lightly, he ruffles Titus's hair. "At least, that is my take on it. I will talk to her. As your mother, your happiness should be her priority, after all." 

 

Dimly, Titus wonders what it would be like to have a mother who really did have his happiness as her priority, or let him call her “Mother,” or would ignore laws that would torture and kill him just because he was her flesh and blood. “She won’t listen,” he says dully. “I...believe me, I appreciate what you’re trying to do. Others have tried to separate us.” He looks down at his own clenched hands, remembering. “I won’t let more people die for me. My happiness isn’t worth that.”

 

A sharp, chiding flick to the forehead follows those words. "Now you're being a martyr, and no one likes that. Think of yourself for five minutes and _do_ have a little faith. She will listen to me whether she likes it or not." 

 

Stunned, Titus nods. “If you...I wouldn’t want to put you in any danger, Milord. She can be cruel, when she’s angry.”

 

 _Where do you think she learned that from?_ "Ahh, I'm aware, I'm aware. She has a rather sharp temper to her, doesn't she? Don't mind it, though, I will field her anger for now." 

 

“Will you, Yunan?” a voice comes from the doorway, as it swings open to reveal Scheherazade, looking decidedly more put-out than she had been when she’d parted from him. “Titus, go wait for me in the entrance hall.”

 

“Yes, my Lady,” Titus answers automatically.

 

"Or you could stay here, and we will go," Yunan dryly dismisses as he climbs to his feet. "Shall we walk, Zadi?" 

 

“We might as well,” Scheherazade says, and leads him out of the room, leaving Titus behind in confusion. “Why are you telling my First Magician to abandon his home country?”

 

"I am hardly telling him to abandon anything," is his easy response. "Merely to make his own choices, especially if some do not include being eaten by lions." 

 

“He has taken many oaths. And--what on earth do you mean about lions? That’s only for a certain kind of criminal, nothing Titus needs worry about.”

 

"Oaths are all well and good, if there is meaning behind them," Yunan answers with a tilt of his head. "And are you telling me I was misinformed, then? If so, it must be a grave crime indeed, to be subjected to such a violent death." 

 

A twitch starts under Scheherazade’s eyebrow. “It’s not _my_ law,” she says, a little defensively. “The Empress’s grandfather held certain...opinions, and they’ve not been challenged.”

 

"… As the Laem Empire's Magi," Yunan slowly replies, "it _is_ your law. If you find an 'opinion' unsavory, then have it changed. It is well within your right. Unless you _agree_ after all."

 

“I have my hands full without attending to every tiny law!” she protests. “I have kept Laem safe and stable for two hundred years!”

 

"Is it so tiny if it affects your _son?"_ Ah, he's getting annoyed now. "There is more to keeping a country safe than raising dungeons to fuel its armies and throwing up shields to keep out your enemies. Keeping your people _happy_ is necessary, too." 

 

“My people are happy! They’re fed and clothed and entertained, every one of them! It isn’t my place to tell my Empress to turn away from the gods of her forefathers!” A flush is in Scheherazade’s cheeks now, and she adds, “And it has nothing to do with Titus. He has a wife and son.”

 

" _You_ are their god." It's impossible to resist the urge to step down onto the trailing ends of her dress and yank her to a stop. "A person can live on scraps and without a shred of clothing on their back if they have _reason_ to. For some, you are denying them that. Do I even want to know who else your country persecutes?" Yunan takes a deep breath. "I am going to insult you now, and you are not going to like it." 

 

Scheherazade fights the urge to stamp her foot down on Yunan’s. She does stamp it, and folds her arms, looking away and trying not to feel like the errant child who’d been caught letting the fox into the chicken coop. “I don’t want to be insulted. My country runs very well.”

 

"Certainly. Economically, and superficially. But do you have people flocking to you, wanting to live there?" Yunan folds his arms over his chest. "How about people wanting to leave? I wonder where they run to instead." 

 

“Laem’s borders are...stable.” There had really been no choice, not if she’d wanted to maintain peace and avoid war, and the population had remained constant, at least not growing at an unmanageable level. “And I hardly think it’s good _kingship_ to simply spoil the people with everything they want like an absent father desperate for approval the way Sinbad does!”

 

"Oh, so you _know_ of Sindria's popularity." Yunan leans forward a bit, eyebrows raised. "If he were simply _spoiling_ his people, I daresay this place would have sunk into the ocean already. He is not a perfect king, but a good one, and a _fair_ one with few if any prejudices. And here is my insult, so listen carefully--this country has been made _better_ beneath Judal's influence. It has grown and flourished and no matter how it is barely a spot of ink on the map compared to your empire, _it is more powerful_. Does that bother you?" 

 

Scheherazade’s cheeks flush bright red in anger, and wind stirs in her hair. “If you were anyone else,” she says, voice quavering, “I would have struck you where you stand. _You_ taught me to do as my chosen king bid! I do not mirror her every ideal, but it isn’t my place to strike down her laws! Would you have done so to your king?”

 

"You can strike me anyway, if you think it will accomplish something," he answers easily, straightening where he stands. "I _did_ teach you to do as your chosen king bids, yes. I did _not_ teach you, however, to roll over and play dead while claiming that certain things are not your _place_. You are her Magi, not her _dog_. Yielding to their every word is the reason this… disgusting notion that we are _tools_ has surfaced. Mind," Yunan quickly adds, "I am not saying that is your fault. I am not angry with you about _any_ of this. Merely… put out. And to answer your question, if he had been such a foolish git as to condemn his own children as sodomites, I would have done more than strike down his _laws_." 

 

“I _wouldn’t_ let that happen to Titus!”

 

Wind howls, and Scheherazade takes a deep breath, quelling the impending storm. “I just...his marriage is _important_. It kept us at peace, and a little extra incentive...but I wouldn’t let anyone _hurt_ him. He’s far too important for that.”

 

Yunan's eyes lid. "Important like a child, or important like a weapon?" he slowly asks. "Zadi. It would almost be _kinder_ to toss him to your lions, listen to yourself." 

 

“That,” she says icily, “has nothing to do with how I run my country. What is kinder, to have him serve the Empire out of blind devotion to his mother? Or to recognize him for the valuable too--magician he is, and treat him as such?”

 

"… That depends very much on what makes him happier, don't you think?"

 

“Who knows what makes children happy?” Scheherazade snaps, throwing up her hands. “I don’t have time to be a _mother_ , Yunan! I have to be a goddess to all of Laem!”

 

Yunan's eyebrows raise. "Then leave him in Sindria's care, if you see yourself so unfit."

 

“I will not relinquish him!” The wind howls again, this time with Scheherazade at the epicenter, eyes flashing. “He is mine, my only living offspring, my most valued magician, and I won’t be parted from him!”

 

"I don't think you quite understand that I am not _giving you an option_." 

 

A sharp, firm flutter of his own rukh quells the impending storm, stamping it down like one would a flame. "You just said you don't have time to be a mother. Then focus on other things, namely your _country_ , and make it a place your son wants to _be_. If it is Sindria that makes you so angry, then consider him in my care. A child like _that_ should not go unsupervised, anyway." _What possessed you to have him in the first place, I will never understand._

 

It’s been a long, long time since Scheherazade has felt any kind of _helpless_. She does now, the force of Yunan’s personality, his wisdom, his power overwhelming her as it always had, even if they were doing nothing more important than drinking tea in her solarium, and this time, he’s _angry_. She swallows hard. “With anyone else...but it’s _you_ , so…”

 

She grabs his hand, suddenly, irrationally worried. “He’ll get hurt, if I’m not there. I protect him.”

 

"I think," Yunan quietly replies, giving her hand a squeeze as the other drops to the top of her head, "he can take care of himself better than you think. If not, then he should learn, and there are many people here that wish to see him safe and happy." 

 

Without hesitation, Scheherazade drops her head to his chest, clutching at his robes. “But if he leaves, he won’t come back. I Saw it years ago.”

 

"Ah, well," he sighs, wrapping an arm properly about her shoulders to tug her closer, "you never were very good at Seeing, now were you? Change your country around a bit, and you might be surprised." 

 

She sighs, closing her eyes and leaning into the familiar circle of his arms. “It will be difficult for me to change that law without everyone knowing it’s about him. It...it took a year and thirty healers for him to impregnate his wife. There’s been talk.”

 

Yunan leans his head back thoughtfully at that. "I doubt that is the only law that needs changing. Toss it in with a few other things, some related, some not, and see what happens. Acceptance of it and a dozen others will not happen overnight, but what else can you do but try?" 

 

“You make me work too hard. You were more fun when you had Duban,” she mutters, wiping her eyes, resentful at him for making her red ad puffy.

 

"None of us had a country to care for. It makes one less responsible," is Yunan's dry retort, and he gently tips her face up, rubbing a thumb over her cheek. "If you are going to be a goddess, be one worth worshipping on all counts. As _annoying_ as I find the boy, the people of Sindria _do_ worship Judal… and for the right reasons, I think. Do take care to not become as irritating as he is, though."

 

Only Yunan can make Scheherazade feel like an errant child. Conversely, only Yunan can make her feel as cared for, as safe as a child. “Fine,” she sighs, leaning into his touch. “I give him into your care, at least for now. You’d be a better mother than I would any day,” she adds, teasing.

 

For that, he pinches her. "Shall I swap our genders for the day, then, to see how that goes? Then he really can call me mother properly."

 

“Give yourself all the breasts you want, just leave mine alone,” she squeaks. Composing herself, all too aware that Sindria has as many leering eyes around corners as Laem has, she picks up her staff. “I’ll go, then. You _will_ take care of him? He’s too powerful for a regular magician to teach him anything else.”

 

"Yes, I _will_ take care of him," Yunan wryly replies, releasing her. "Later, we will have a conversation about what exactly possessed you to _have him_ in the first place."

 

Scheherazade doesn’t meet his eyes. “My Empress requested. Titus was the only one that survived.”

 

"Mm. A pity." He reaches out to give her head another little pat. "Well, go on, then. If you need me, you know how to call for me." 

 

Scheherazade leans up on her tiptoes and places a kiss on Yunan’s cheek. “Don’t go too crazy in your Dark Continent hole.” She hops up onto her staff, hovering easily. “And bring him back eventually!” she calls, before flitting out the window and disappearing into the night air.

 

A few minutes later, a pale blond head pokes out from around the hallway corner. Titus licks his lips nervously, looking around for any trace of that familiar face. “I...I thought I felt my Lady depart.”

 

"Oh, yes," Yunan brightly replies, "she's returning to Laem. It seems your stay has been extended after all, isn't that lucky?" 

 

Titus swallows. “What did you say to her? Is she...has she…” _I’m sorry, my Lady. I can do better. I can be what you need me to be, I’ll try harder._ “She’s done with me, isn’t she?”

 

"Mmn, no. I believe she went home, actually, to do some tweaking within your country and make it a bit more hospitable. I can't blame her, it's a little mind-numbingly painful to even hear about it. In the meantime," Yunan dismissively says, "she has left you within Sindria's care. Well, technically mine, but I won't be staying here for too much longer."

 

Titus creeps a bit closer, half-expecting his mother to suddenly reappear at the window as suddenly as she had the first time. It doesn’t seem _real_ , and the hope in his eyes is only slightly less bright than the fear it will all be taken from him again. “How long, until I have to go back?”

 

"When you want to," is Yunan's simple reply. "She would like it if you did, eventually, but I advised her to make it a far more appealing place prior to that." 

 

“More appealing?” Titus’s guard goes up automatically. “In what way?”

 

"As in less a jail cell, more a place you _want_ to live," Yunan dryly retorts. By _god_ , he is as high strung as Zadi used to be--and still is, though hers is far more tempered and chilly these days.  "Relax, child, I have lived for a few centuries. I know of how people can be, and I have no intentions of seeing things _more_ difficult for you."

 

 _Relaxing_ has never been one of Titus’s great talents. It usually takes a long massage, a sweet-smelling bath, and a door tightly locked on him and Sphintus to make it happen. “I only want to serve her,” he says quietly. “It’s why she created me. I just…” He looks up, eyes wide and questioning, a little desperate. “Is it so wrong to want to be happy while I do, or at least not fear for my life, even if I _was_ made wrong?” His voice cracks on the last word.

 

Ahh, he wants to shake Scheherazade, and then some, no matter what little good it would do.

 

"… Perhaps the notion of having you serve her was what originally brought about your creation, but… she does care for and love you, in her own way." _No, it's hardly her fault. I locked myself in a hole, after all. I wasn't exactly there to be council._ "Very few children are ever born from Magi," Yunan gently says, reaching out to tug on one of Titus's braids. "You are perhaps the only one I have seen to survive this long. That must mean you are very loved by the rukh, just like your mother, and with that in mind, I hardly think there is any part of you made _wrong_." 

 

_Can it be?_

 

Titus hardly trusts to hope, but…

 

Rarely does he feel his own rukh, but he’s heard enough from Aladdin remarking on what it’s doing at a certain time to know it must be positively thrumming now. “Thank you,” he says, voice soft. He kneels, taking one of Yunan’s hands and kissing the back of it. “I will not forget to repay you this debt I owe, I swear it by the name I bear.”

 

"It's _hardly_ a debt--"

 

"Titus! Ugh, thank _god,_ you're still _here!_ "

 

Yunan lifts his head, amused at the sight of a man all but skidding around the corner, chest heaving from the amount of effort it must have taken to get here so fast. "Ah," he says, tugging his hand free from Titus's grasp and reaching down to pull him to his feet. "You must be… Sphintus, was it? This must be yours." 

 

Sphintus flushes as Titus is all but pushed in his direction, his eyes wide as they flick back and forth from Yunan to Titus before focusing on his lover first and foremost. "What's going on? Is she making you leave after all? You made it sound like I'd never see you again, what the hell were you _thinking_ , just sending me a _letter_ \--" He might be bodily shaking the wretch at this point. 

 

Titus goes a bit limp in Sphintus’s arms, overcome with such relief that he can do little except let himself be shaken by those perfect, familiar arms that he loves so much. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, she came and I didn’t think I’d have time before you came back, but--”

 

He extricates himself with a great deal of difficulty, trying to remember that just because Yunan doesn’t treat him like an abomination is no reason to shove it in his face. “Prince Sphintus of Heliohapt, this is the Magi Yunan. He’s...I suppose my new guardian, though I’m _hardly_ of an age where I _need_ such a thing.”

 

"Which is why it is a meaningless title, mostly, while you are here within Sindria," Yunan adds with a dismissive wave. "It is an honor to meet you, Sphintus of Heliohapt."

 

"Ah--" Right, where are his manners? "I… the same to you." What are manners, when Titus apparently isn't going anywhere? Sphintus sucks in a slow, calming breath--as much as he can, at any rate--and tries to stop himself from shaking Titus again. "Don't _do_ that again. I already told you once that I'd kidnap you if I had to." 

 

“She just showed up, I didn’t _mean_ to,” Titus protests, and ah, Yunan’s presence or not, he can’t quite help himself from fisting a hand into Sphintus’s tunic, knowing how close, how shockingly close he’d been to losing his lover forever. He barely restrains himself from murmuring, _careful, you’re being obvious_ , because he’ll be damned if he doesn’t want to be a little obvious himself. “Ah, Milord? Do I have to do such things as...ask your permission to go drinking in town? I _am_ in my twenties, and I’m sure such a thing would quickly become tedious for you as well.” _Especially because as soon as we’re out of your sight I’m dragging Sphintus back to our room and shoving him to the floor._

 

"I have my own affairs to take care of, go drink in celebration," is the Magi's disinterested reply, already half-turned away. "Enjoy yourselves."

 

Sphintus _likes_ this Magi. "'In your twenties'--you look like you're five half the time," he lowly mutters, attempting a bow of his head that undoubtedly goes unnoticed before making to drag Titus away. 

 

Now that he’s away from another Magi, someone so powerful as to make obliterating him easy, someone who more importantly _knows his mother,_ the elation he’d been trying to fight surges through Titus. He laughs, almost drunk with the relief of it, and by the time they round the corner he leaps onto Sphintus’s back with the barest aid of wind magic. He wraps his arms around the other man’s neck from behind, squeezing tight and ordering breathlessly, “I want to go to our room and _unpack_.”

 

"Suddenly with the energy," Sphintus can't help but laugh, nevertheless reaching back to hitch Titus's legs up as he walks down the hall, carrying the other man like he weighs nothing (and, well, relatively…). "You're doing the _unpacking_ , do you know how fast and hard I ran here? Ugh, the things I do for you…" 

 

Titus nuzzles into Sphintus’s neck, partly to hide his smile as his arms tighten. “But you don’t mind.” _And they are so much kinder than the things I would do for you._

 

“Besides,” he adds in a lower voice, “I only have a couple things to unpack. I just wanted to get you out of sight.”

 

It's a good thing that the room is only a short walk away, and that Titus is easily enough to dump off and onto the bed. "So I gathered," Sphintus sighs, dropping down after him and immediately nuzzling his face into the side of his neck. " _I'm_ just glad you can stay. Sindria is nice and all, but without you, it would just be lonely." 

 

Titus wastes no time in wrapping his arms and legs around Sphintus’s body, yanking him down and rolling him onto his back. “Don’t leave,” he mutters, fingers yanking at the other man’s tunic. “It’s _fine_ now, I’m here and you’re here and we can fix _both_ our countries from here maybe…”

 

 _Maybe_ \--always an annoying clause, but Sphintus ignores it in favor of remembering what it's like to be an optimist. His back hits the mattress with a thump, and he sags back with a heavy exhale, _really_ liking the sight of Titus above him and eager and wanting enough to paw at him. "Never said I was leaving," he simply replies, hands lifting to splay them over Titus's hips. "Geez, don't rip it, I'm _not_ going anywhere."

 

Sphintus doesn’t really understand. He doesn’t really know what it’s like to know that his life is over, that he’s no good for the one thing he was created for, that all his talent and skill are worthless when it comes to his own life. “No, you’re not. I’m not going to let you.” 

 

He grins, the relief such a heady, giddy thing, and squirms on top of Sphintus, straddling his hips and somehow managing to get his tunic off over his head. “Gods, the sight of you...I just want to have you right here.”

 

"So have at it, you brat," is the low, teasing rumble, a hand dragging up Titus's back and tangling into his hair at the nape of his neck to drag him down. Sphintus's mouth drags along the arc of his throat, nipping, sucking, biting gently into the crook of his shoulder, and his eyes lid as his other hand reaches around to grab at Titus's ass, squeezing hard and pulling his hips down as his own thrust up. 

 

Titus wriggles out of his clothes, shivering at the touch of Sphintus’s mouth, his hands tracing along strong chest muscles and shoulder muscles and ah, it’s hardly an exaggeration to think he’d die without this feeling all the time. “I think,” he groans, wiggling down to straddle Sphintus’s hips again, pressing down hard against Sphintus’s cock, “you’re the reason I lived when all the others died.”

 

He looks down, hands curling into fists against Sphintus’s chest. “I don’t think they wanted anything as much as I want you.”

 

At that, Sphintus _has_ to laugh, and his fingers knead into Titus's ass with another squeeze. "Or maybe you're just too pretty to die." His breath hitches as his hips jerk up on their own accord, his cock sliding up along the cleft of Titus's ass, and it's impossible not to grab and squeeze the cheeks of it--god, Titus is always so soft and really, adorably _squishy_ \--to better thrust his cock up between them, just barely rubbing over his hole. "Too pretty, and you feel way too good."

 

Titus’s eyes flutter at the press of that cock, thick and hot and hard, against his ass. His brain shorts out, an endless litany of _want it want it want it in me I want it oh gods_ running through his mind, his mouth falling open as he shudders. “I--give it to me, I--” 

 

He swallows hard, trying to remember what he was saying, what he was _thinking_. Lost cause, that.

 

"Gonna hurt yourself one of these days," Sphintus mutters, abandoning his grabbing with much difficulty to fish around for the aloe at their bedside. It takes only a moment to slick his cock, and god, even if he _says_ Titus is going to hurt himself, he's _way_ too good at taking cock, always so eager and god, he looks good squirming on it, and Sphintus shudders, eyes briefly shutting to get ahold of himself. "Put it in yourself, go on." 

 

Titus doesn’t need to be told twice. Honestly, he hardly waits for Sphintus to finish telling him the first time, raising up on his knees and taking hold, teasing himself with the head of it for a long, breathy second before lowering himself down, a low, urgent groan coming from his mouth as it sinks into him. “D-doesn’t hurt, never hurts,” he pants, bracing his hands against Sphintus’s chest. “Need it. Ah, gods, you _know_ I need it--”

 

Titus always feels _incredible_. Tight and slick and _hot_ and it's a wonder that Sphintus doesn't take him face-down all of the time, what with how he likes seeing the other man's body _take him_ so damnably well. "I know, baby, I know," is the low, ragged reply that he manages, breath catching hard as he grabs hold of Titus's hips, unable to help himself from _yanking_ Titus down the last few inches as his own hips lurch up to press that much deeper. "You're so… _so_ good at this," Sphintus groans, sagging back into the bed. "Go on, fuck yourself on my cock, you look _perfect_." 

 

Titus lets out a breathless squeal as the last few inches slam into him, stealing the air from his lungs, making him feel so full he sees stars. His legs are shaky as he tries to get them under him, but even stronger than the tight, full stretch is the desire for _more_ of it, to feel the rocking, pounding motion of Sphintus _taking_ him. 

 

He has to brace his hands hard on Sphintus’s chest, leaning forward, face flushed and jaw clenched to keep any semblance of mental facility, and he starts rocking up and down, eyes half-closed as he bends his knees, clenching tight around his lover. “Feels so good,” he whispers. “Gods, I know I sound like a whore when you’re in me, but...can’t _help_ it, you feel so--so big, so _good_ \--”

 

"I like it when you sound like a whore."

 

Sphintus shoves himself up onto his elbows, biting, sucking at that pretty, pale throat that just _asks_ to be marked up, his fingers digging hard enough to leave bruises for sure. He'll kiss them later, apologize a bit, but right now, Titus looks _good_ marked up, likes it even more, and god, he can't _help_ but shove up into him as deeply as he can from time to time, sighing out a hot, ragged breath into the crook of his neck. "Should see yourself," he murmurs. "Pretty sure you were made for this. Do you know how _jealous_ everyone would be, if you were in my harem?" 

 

Titus bites his lip, clenching down hard at the thought, even though that just makes Sphintus feel _bigger_ inside of him. He’d seen Sphintus’s father’s harem in Heliohapt, attired in little, seemingly content to kneel at the king’s side and lay a head on his knee, heard them laughing and playing games at night, heard them giving advice and counsel. “Wouldn’t have to hide,” he mutters. “You could just--parade me in--ahh--in front of everyone, make me--S-Sphintus, I _can’t_ \--”

 

He sucks in a long breath, and with little effort, simply flips them over, shoving Titus hard down into the mattress, a possessive bite nearly breaking the skin of one slender, pale shoulder. "You _can_ ," Sphintus pants out, shoving in hard as he yanks Titus's thighs apart, fingers digging into the soft flesh as he groans at the tight squeeze of Titus's body shivering around him. "And you will. You're _my_ whore, aren't you? Made just for _me_ \--to fuck--" 

 

It's with a groan that he spills, another slap of his hips all it takes, hissing through his teeth at how it _feels_ to be inside of Titus with everything that much hotter and slicker and _god_ , just when he'd thought the man couldn't feel any _better_.

 

A ragged shiver goes through Titus, and he clutches at Sphintus desperately with fingers that don’t want to _work_. His thighs tremble, as far apart as they’re spread, and he squirms around just so he can feel that tense, slick _fullness_ that he only gets after Sphintus has finished with him. In a way, that’s better than any orgasm, and he bites his lip, squeezing down around it just to _feel_ it better. “Just yours,” he breathes, arching up off the bed at the shocks it sends up his spine just to _admit_ it. “That’s….what I’m made for. Just for you.”

 

Sphintus breathlessly grins at that, and slides one hand up to palm Titus's cock, his thumb dragging over the slick, dripping head of it. "Yeah, and look how good you are… are you waiting for me to tell you it's okay to come all over yourself? Messy whore." He presses a wet, sloppy kiss to the side of Titus's neck, mouth sliding up to suck the lobe of his ear into his mouth. "Go on, show me how much you liked getting fucked." 

 

That’s enough, and Titus cries out probably too loud when he comes, arching off the bed, liquid heat shooting up his spine until his toes curl, his head rolls back, his arms clench so tight the muscles _hurt_. It is messy, and he _loves_ that, loves how messy Sphintus leaves him, how splayed open and _used_ he feels with Sphintus still inside of him. 

 

With a sigh, he collapses back onto the bed, eyes unfocused, breath ragged. One hand flops listlessly against Sphintus’s chest, but damned if Titus can make his voice work right now.

 

"Good," Sphintus sighs, and he drags his hand away to suck his own fingers clean as he slowly rolls to the side, dragging Titus with him. "Mmn… really good. Definitely could use another year of this," he murmurs into the other man's hair. "Talk about therapeutic." 

 

“If that’s...what my Healer orders.” Titus snuggles contentedly against Sphintus’s chest, tracing little patterns on it with one finger. “I said it didn’t matter where we were as long as I was with you, but...it matters a little. I like this place, a lot. Ah, gods, I’m sticky.”

 

"Sindria's pretty nice," Sphintus quietly agrees, casting an amused glance down. "You really _are_ a mess. I guess a bath is in order, you're not good at lazing _around_ like a whore," he teases with a pinch to Titus's hip.

 

Titus squeals, wriggling, and buries his face in a pillow. “Do I have to laze around being sticky to be in your harem? Is that a prerequisite?”

 

"Nah, you're cuter when you're clean and prissy, anyway. I don't know what I'd do if you suddenly decided you _liked_ being dirty…"

 

“You’d exploit it,” Titus says definitely. “You’d get way too much enjoyment from making me dirty all the time. You’d probably make me stay that way, heathen barbarian.”

 

"I just said I liked you better clean and prissy!" Sphintus protests. "Don't be a brat, I'll drown you in the tub." 

 

“As if you have a chance against me in water,” Titus scoffs, and rolls slowly out of the bed, wincing as his ass stings, and he feels the sinfully filthy feeling of himself dripping. “At least Sindria has nice baths. Oh, I meant to ask, what’s a sauna? Your cousin said it was sort of like a bathhouse.”

 

Sphintus _stares_ at that, even as he pushes himself up as well. "… He didn't offer to take you there, did he?" 

 

“Well, _sort_ of,” Titus muses, scratching his hair idly, unbraiding one of his braids. “He asked if you’d taken me in Heliohapt, and I said no, and then he asked if I’d like to see it with him tomorrow. Why, is it not a bathhouse? Is he playing a joke on me?”

 

"I'm going to kill him," Sphintus growls, snatching up a robe to drape over Titus's shoulders with a _twitch_. "He's _hitting_ on you. Don't go with him, and if he tries anything else, tell me. I'll internally castrate him."

 

“I think I’d know if he hit me!” Titus protests, though he snuggles down into the robe all the same. “Why, what is he planning to do to me? I _can_ take care of myself, you know.”

 

"As in _flirting_ with you, Titus," Sphintus tiredly sighs, swiping a hand back through his own bangs as he grabs a robe for himself. "He _probably_ wants you to suck his cock, who the hell knows. I'm well aware you can take care of yourself, but that doesn't make _me_ want to kill him any less." 

 

“Oh.” Titus has a momentary flash of what it would be like to be trapped between Sphintus and his cousin, smooth dark hands running all over him, forcing him to his knees, prying his mouth and thighs open at the same time, and almost has to sit down. “Y-yeah. Don’t worry, I’ll make certain he knows….well, that I’m not interested, I can hardly tell him I’m yours.”

 

" _I'll_ tell him if it makes him leave you alone. I--are you all right? You look like you're gonna pass out." 

 

“Just...worried someone will find out,” Titus says weakly, trying again to banish the image. “Besides, I thought you said you couldn’t tell him for family reasons.”

 

"… Well, I _shouldn't_ , but if it makes him stop flirting with you…" Sphintus sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. "Whatever. Just… turn down his offer, don't go to a sauna with him."

 

Titus laughs, dragging Sphintus towards the baths. “Don’t worry so much. I don’t want anyone but you, and no one is going to force me. So there’s nothing to worry about.”

 

"Good." It's really, really difficult not to snag an arm around him in public, but he resists, for what little propriety they have left. "Let's keep it that way." _Still gonna castrate you for even looking at him, Sharr._

 


	6. Chapter 6

 

Really, it was inevitable that it would come to this.

 

Sinbad _likes_ to keep things simple enough in Sindria that Ja’far can keep up a steady pace, possibly get ahead a bit. With all the insanity going on lately, he’s known it would come to this for a while, but that doesn’t make it any less…sort of _charming_.

 

The office is dark, pitch-black, and when Sinbad lights a match, he discovers why. All the candles, every single one, have burned out to stubs, leaving Ja’far’s slumped form surrounded by lumpy, melted wax and several dozen teacups.

 

_Enough is enough._

 

Inevitability is all well and good, but Sinbad didn’t become king by caring about such things. He lifts Ja’far easily, more relieved than he should be by a heartbeat, and carries him to the king’s chambers. Far softer and more comfortable than Ja’far’s own, it’s the perfect place for rest, and Sinbad tucks him into the massive bed before pulling the covers over him, taking up his own seat at the corner desk to finish what little work he has by comparison.

 

When he sleeps through a location change, then Ja'far supposes he _is_ a little too tired.

 

He stirs eventually, too slowly for his liking with the softness of his bed--no, not his, definitely Sinbad's by the scent and _squishiness_ of it--attempting to drag him back into slumber. A quiet, exasperated sigh leaves him before he even cracks open his eyes, and Ja'far tries for about a second to push himself up onto an elbow before flopping back down again, resigning himself to how comfortable Sinbad's bed is after all. 

 

"Tell me I finished everything, at least." It's bad, that he doesn't quite remember.

 

“You did. I went back in and checked, oh, yesterday.” Sinbad smiles, sitting in the windowsill and staring out at the landscape, letting the smoke from his pipe drift out the window. “I know how you get, so anything new has been filed according to how important it is. I took care of everything urgent and left you everything fiddly.”

 

" _Yesterday?_ " Ugh. He should be fired. Ja'far pulls a blanket over his face all the same. "I cannot believe you actually did work and I didn't. This is a new low for me."

 

“Given that I had apparently failed to notice that you’d gone without sleeping or eating for a solid week, let’s call it a new low for both of us,” Sinbad suggests. “You _will_ eat today.”

 

"I _ate_." Tea counts as food, doesn't it? "You have been busy in your own right," Ja'far sighs as he rolls to the side, an arm dangling off the side of the bed. "Sindria has not exactly been quiet lately. Are you going to share that or just torment me?" 

 

Sinbad takes that as an invitation, dumping out the ashes and refilling the pipe, lighting it and taking a long puff before handing it over. “A gift from the king of Heliohapt, sent with his son. I don’t know if he’s heard of your weakness or not, but he could hardly do more to endear himself to me.”

 

"I have no complaints," Ja'far sighs, scooting back to prop himself up on a pillow before taking a long, grateful drag and exhaling shakily. "I can only assume, if you are here right now, that whatever happened with our _other_ guest was resolved? Scheherazade, by the way, seems to favor wind magic. Do not send me after her again." 

 

Sinbad winces. “Wind, eh? Sorry, I’ve been fortunate enough to avoid facing her in combat. And yes, Yunan managed to convince her not only to leave the boy in his, meaning _my_ care, but to go back to Laem as well.” He climbs onto the bed, giving Ja’far a somewhat stern look. “I certainly never meant for you to try and _fight a Magi_.”

 

Ja'far levels a stare at him. "You say this as if I wanted to. It was defensive, I assure you, when I attempted to open my mouth and she saw fit to try and kill me." 

 

“Ah.” Sinbad frowns, toeing off his shoes before sliding properly into bed. “I’ll file sanctions on her, if you like. That’s quite an insult to Sindria, and everyone knows your importance here.”

 

"I am fairly certain she does not _care_. Don't bother, that will just mean more paperwork in the end and I have had enough of her and Yunan and _everything else_ besides." Right. Smoking, that's a calming thing to do. Ja'far sinks back with a long, heavy sigh. "Hopefully her boy will realize we don't feed anyone to the wolves--or was it lions?--here."

 

“Do you know, I’d rather expected the two of them to confine themselves to chambers and not part from each other,” Sinbad muses. He contemplates stealing the pipe, but discards the notion. Ja’far needs it more than he does. “They’ve been running all about Sindria, healing the sick and fixing problems here and there. I want to keep them, and not just for their connections.”

 

"They're both good boys," Ja'far says, another long exhale of smoke following before he passes the pipe back to Sinbad. He's a bit lightheaded already, and that never bodes well. "The prince… hardly what I expected, considering his cousin. I blame your bad influence for how Sharrkan turned out." 

 

“So do I,” Sinbad says cheerfully, without a hint of remorse, and plucks the pipe from Ja’far’s hands. “If you eat more, you can smoke more,” he adds, gesturing to the veritable pile of food that he’s only eaten a _little_ of for himself.

 

"That wasn't a compliment," comes Ja'far's exasperated reply, and he settles back with a weary sigh. "Later. I am hardly going to drop dead, and a little fasting is good for you, besides."

 

“After overindulgence,” Sinbad says firmly. “Or to slim your hips, or in religious observance. You never overindulge, you don’t even worship me, and if your hips get any slimmer I’ll have nothing to hold. Eat something.”

 

"I could live off the fat in my thighs for a month." Sinbad is annoying when he has his mind set, however, and so breaking a bread loaf in half and nibbling is a good way to shut him up. "'Don't even worship you'… you sound so _forlorn_." 

 

Sinbad laughs aloud, leaning over and ruffling Ja’far’s hair. “I brought that on myself, fair enough. And if you live off your thighs, what am _I_ supposed to live off? I’m saving those for a rainy day.”

 

"You must mean another hurricane, considering the influx of bad weather we have had recently." Ja'far bats Sinbad's hand away lightly. " _Honestly_ , I'm fine. I am the only one to blame if I fell asleep at my desk." 

 

Sinbad pulls back, brow creased. It doesn’t feel right, somehow, the two of them together here with everything that’s going on. Rather, it’s odd that it should feel odd, that it should feel like some sort of the basest blasphemy that Ja’far is actually taking a day off. “I don’t intend to work you until your death,” he says slowly, “no matter what you intend for yourself. No, before you snap at me, listen. You work hard, and you keep Sindria running, and I appreciate that. But if you overwork yourself--and don’t _dare_ tell me you aren’t overworked, I can see the dark circles under your eyes, I moved you without waking you, I know you well enough to know when you’re _unwell_ \--I have myself to blame, rather than you.”

 

He stands from the bed, walking slowly to the window, interlacing his fingers behind his back and looking out at the city. “What must I change?”

 

"… This is all hardly a weekly occurrence, you know," Ja'far slowly points out. "Merely the last few months have been… questionable, at best. Sindria is growing, and with it, its popularity more than ever. It can't be helped." 

 

“I know you’ve disliked the idea in the past,” Sinbad says slowly, all too aware that “dislike” describes Ja’far’s reaction about as well as “pleased” describes Judal’s reaction when Aladdin had returned, “but if you would _consider_ taking on an assistant or two…”

 

"Do you have any idea how impossible it is for someone to help rather than hinder me?" Ja'far bluntly returns.

 

“You’ve been clear on the subject, yes,” Sinbad admits. “But just--don’t shoot the idea down yet, just listen. For a week, maybe two, yes, it will be more of a hindrance than a help. But after they’re _trained_ , by your hand alone, think what use that would be! If you could stick with a single assistant--or two--for long enough to make proper office workers out of them, that would free you for the most difficult tasks, which you _can’t_ impart to anyone else.”

 

"No one wants to stay around long enough for that," is the dry retort to follow. "I have been told on several occasions that I am less than pleasant to work with. Imagine that. Honestly, Sin, it's _fine_. The only time that it isn't is when I am doing _your_ work as well." 

 

“Sindria is growing,” Sinbad reminds him. “Sharrkan and Hinahoho train more soldiers by the day. Yamu has more magicians, they _all_ have assistants, it’s hardly optional anymore. We’re nearly twenty years on, of course there’s going to be more paperwork. You can’t file taxes for five thousand people as easily as for five hundred, that’s madness. And there’s only going to be _more_ , if the gods smile. If I pay someone enough to guarantee they’ll stick around, will you try once more?”

 

"I have plenty of assistants within parliament, but you are asking me to let someone into _my_ office--" Irritation makes his teeth grind, and Ja'far frowns. _I certainly can file taxes that easily. I've been doing it this whole time, haven't I?_ "… I will think about it." Undoubtedly, that is what Sinbad wants him to say, anyway.

 

“Don’t just say so, _do_ think about it.” Sinbad sighs, scratching his head before climbing back onto the bed. “I dislike scolding you. It doesn’t come as easily to my lips as to yours..”

 

"So don't," Ja'far simply retorts. "I ignore it all, anyway."

 

“You really are the most horrible bully,” Sinbad says fondly, leaning down to take a bite from the bread Ja’far has barely touched. “Let me give you a massage, where is the worst?”

 

" _Bully?_ " A snort follows that, and Ja'far barely resists the urge to stuff the bread down Sinbad's throat. He'd like to tell the man _everything_ , but that would just make Sinbad worry all the more--tiresome, that. "… My feet have been killing me." It isn't a lie, either. 

 

Without hesitation, Sinbad crawls to the foot of the bed, drawing one slender leg into his lap and working his thumbs against the sole. “Is it the scars?” he asks, after a moment. “That make your feet hurt so? They do even when you’ve been at your desk unmoving for days.”

 

Ja'far's leg fairly twitches from the urge not to _kick_ on reflex, his toes curling beneath the touch as he sucks in a breath. "Maybe," he admits, tipping his head back. "Or the weather, or perhaps I am just getting old." 

 

“You’re not allowed to get old. If you get old, that makes me older.”

 

"Unfortunately, Sin, you are getting even older than I."

 

“That’s illegal. You watched me draft the law, I’m not allowed to get older and you aren’t allowed to mention it.”

 

"… You were _drunk_ ," Ja'far slowly drawls. "That wasn't a _real_ law."

 

“I’m pretty sure I outlawed telling me I can’t make real laws when I’m drunk, too.”

 

Ja'far _does_ kick him, that time--a square hit to the middle of his chest. "You most certainly did not. If you did, I overturned it." 

 

Sinbad grunts, taking the cue to switch to the other foot, thumbs dragging down the arch. “When did I give you that power?”

 

"When you were younger and your mind was a bit sharper." 

 

“My mind is as sharp as it ever was. Any bluntness is from repeated lashings of your tongue.”

 

"Don't blame your shortcomings on me," Ja'far sighs, arching his leg to shove his foot harder down into Sinbad's hand. "If anything has dulled your mind, it is the alcohol." 

 

“What rubbish. I make better decisions when I’m drunk, the whole kingdom knows that. If you imbibed more often, maybe you’d be able to keep an assistant on for more than twelve hours.”

 

"… No, you have random ideas when you are drunk, and _I_ change them around into something useful," Ja'far deadpans. "I can't keep an assistant because I don't _want_ to. They are about as useful as paperweights." 

 

“Then think of them as paperweights in a maelstrom,” Sinbad suggests, tugging on a delicate toe. “What if I made you a bargain? Or a bet?”

 

"My toes don't need massaging," Ja'far mutters, his foot drawing back with full intentions of kicking again. "What kind of a bargain?" 

 

“I bet…” Sinbad pauses, thinking. “I bet I can abstain from alcohol longer than you can keep an assistant.”

 

It's _impossible_ not to laugh at that. "I _know_ you can. You've done it before, I am not taking that bet."

 

Sinbad grimaces at the memory. Dark days, those had been dark days. “In that case...why not make it tenfold? Choose any behavior of mine. I’ll abstain tenfold. You make it one day with an assistant, I’ll make it ten without my vice.” He looks up, eyes glittering. “Do your worst.”

 

It's almost worth it, just to watch Sinbad flail about. "All right. No sex, then. I'm counting your hand, too." 

 

Sinbad’s face falls so fast he’s fairly sure it goes through the floor. “I--I said a _vice_ , not a completely normal urge that benefits everyone!”

 

"It's a vice when you have four dozen or so bastard children running about," Ja'far mildly points out. "Plus a reputation for accidentally bedding foreign princesses." 

 

“That didn’t _happen_ , that was a _misunderstanding_ ,” Sinbad protests. “Besides, why prohibit my hand if that’s the case? I’m hardly going to sire a child there.”

 

"Isn't this still about controlling our urges and vices? If I am to still my hand regarding _assistants_ , then you can certainly still yours." 

 

Sinbad opens his mouth to complain, then shuts it again. “I need parameters.”

 

"I just gave them to you. What part of 'no sex' don't you understand?" 

 

“Well,” Sinbad says, drawing the word out in his mouth, “I might need clarification. I’m touching you right now, but that isn’t sex, is it?”

 

"… Are you trying to tell me you'd go around touching everyone still as you normally do and not actually finish anything?" Ja'far dryly retorts. "You're just being difficult now." 

 

“And you would know nothing about being _difficult_ ,” Sinbad deadpans. “But truly, tell me: when is it sex? Is kissing sex?” He trails a hand up a couple inches, brushing the bottom of one scar, running a thumb along the edge. “ _This_ isn’t sex.”

 

"Why do I have to lay out _guidelines_ for you of all people?" Ja'far twitches again, his foot shoving into Sinbad's side lightly. "Forget it. I didn't want to do your ridiculous betting game, anyway."

 

“Then what about something else?” Sinbad suggests, more than willing to let go of the idea once ‘no sex’ was introduced. “Name your reward, for keeping on an assistant. _Name_ it. Do you want me to choose a final heir? I--”

 

He stops himself, finally letting go of Ja’far’s foot with a sigh. “Never mind. You want nothing, as usual.”

 

"I _want_ you to stop pestering me about it," is Ja'far's following sigh, a hand raking back through his bangs. "I will try _one more time_ to tolerate someone. That's it, so don't look as if you are a puppy I have been kicking around." 

 

“I am only _pestering_ because you were collapsed over your desk after not leaving the room for a week,” Sinbad reminds him. “When you are functioning and well, I leave you well enough alone, do I not?”

 

"And had you left me well alone, I would have woken up and resumed just fine within the next day," Ja'far sniffs. "I'm very good at my job. Let me be." 

 

Sinbad shoots him what can only be called a glare, affectionate though it is. “Have I ever once, in all our thankfully uncounted years together, questioned whether you were good at your job?”

 

"Well over 20 now," Ja'far helpfully supplies. "And no, you haven't, but this _assistant_ mess makes me wonder." 

 

“Twenty years, _gods_ ,” Sinbad groans, barely refraining from pressing the back of his hand to his forehead. “I’d assumed I’d be gloriously dead by now.”

 

"There, there." Ja'far lifts his foot to give Sinbad's shoulder a pat with it. "At least you don't _look_ your age. Merely act it at times, with your occasional forgetfulness and tendency towards nostalgia." 

 

“And you,” Sinbad retorts, all delicacy on the subject gone now, “are taking an assistant. Or I will make it my _personal goal_ to spend time with all those bastard children of mine for the next year, showing them the palace room by room and letting them make paper snowflakes out of your scrolls.” He leans down over Ja’far, and hisses in his ear, “After feeding them _sticky finger-foods_.”

 

Ja'far stares up at him, absolutely horrified (and _rightfully so_ , he thinks). "You wouldn't dare."

 

“Wouldn’t I? Ask yourself, Ja’far,” Sinbad says slowly, enjoying this now, “how much reverent respect for your precious scrolls do I _really_ have?”

 

Ja'far _hisses_. "I will string you _and_ all of your bastards up from the ceiling if you continue along this train of thought."

 

“Are you sure?” Sinbad laughs, and grabs Ja’far’s wrists, pinning them over his head. “As you were so exhausted to point out, I have _dozens_ , in this city alone. And you only have two wires.”

 

The stare that Ja'far fixes upon him is less than impressed. "And now you are doubting my combat abilities as well? _Try me_ ," he grumbles, twisting to flex a leg upward and poke at Sinbad's hip with his toes, "I will have all of you dangling and then some." 

 

Sinbad’s grin widens, and changes subtly as he simply lowers himself atop Ja’far, holding the man down with his weight. “Not if I leave you useless to do anything but...beg.”

 

"You think very highly of yourself today." Ja'far heaves a long sigh, sagging back down into the mattress beneath the man's weight, which… is nice, after such a long time. His legs shift and spread, just enough to press to either side of Sinbad's hips. "I don't feel like begging, Sin." 

 

Sinbad’s eyes lid at the press of those warm, soft thighs around him, and he raises up onto his forearms, looking down at Ja’far from a brief few inches away. “What do you feel like, hmm? Moaning? Scolding? Screaming? I--” He breaks off, with a little sheepish laugh. “I can’t focus when I can’t stop looking at your freckles.” He bends down, unrepentantly brushing his lips across them.

 

"Incorrigible," is the low, amused rumble, and Ja'far's lid before sliding shut entirely. "I _feel_ like just enjoying myself. You're warm, that is a good start." 

 

“I,” Sinbad murmurs, nibbling on a bit of freckled skin before moving down to Ja’far’s lips, “believe that most kings wouldn’t appreciate being ordered around so.”

 

A long, slow kiss does much in the way of relieving his own tension, and Ja’far is warm and supple beneath him, pliant to his touch and always _interesting_ beneath his hands.

 

Ah, well, that is _definitely_ true. Ja'far's eyes flutter, his hands sliding up and through Sinbad's hair to lightly tug as he lurches up to kiss back. "You," he murmurs, "are hardly _most_ kings. And I am hardly fit to serve another, besides." 

 

“You are fit,” Sinbad says, voice a low husk, “to be by my side, now and forever. You always were.”

 

He laughs, burying his face in Ja’far’s neck. “I’d have you on my throne, but I think Yunan has stolen it for the time being.”

 

"That requires _moving_ , besides," Ja'far sighs dismissively, dragging one hand down Sinbad's spine, thumbing over each bump of it. "Your bed is fine, then no one need disturb him and stir things back up _again_." 

 

“Hmm, not when I’ve only just gotten him calmed down,” Sinbad agrees. “Though...this may be athletic. Are you well enough? Or shall I confine myself to touching you ever so gently?”

 

Ja'far briefly contemplates biting him. "I needed a _nap_ , not a medical ward visit. Honestly, Sin, if you think me less than _athletic_ even now…"

 

“Ah, nothing like that. Merely…” Sinbad leans down, placing a kiss on the inside of one wrist, then brushing his lips up a wire-covered arm. “I have fond memories of one or the other of us being injured, and a slow, easy rub. I told you then that I’d always be satisfied with any part of you to rub against.”

 

"… Is that a request, then?" Ja'far can't help but sound faintly amused. "Mmn. Well, whatever suits you. And if you want… I suppose you can take those off." He probably has _marks_ on his arms, more so than ever, from having those wires on them constantly, and recalling the last time he let Sinbad remove them in bed is nearly impossible.

 

That’s enough to make Sinbad pause. “Really? I’ll put them back on afterwards, of course.”

 

"It's fine." He wriggles his fingers as he stretches out an arm. "I suppose I don't need them to protect you right now, at least." 

 

It’s been long years since Sinbad has had to try his skill in unwrapping the wires--and more, unwrapping without tangling. After the Kou Empire’s invasion, Ja’far hadn’t trusted himself without them, not even to bathe, to the best of Sinbad’s knowledge. He unwraps them now, trying to remember the pattern, one end coiling slowly as he reveals the pale arms and their pink indents, and beneath that the old scars. He sets one wire aside, kissing up that arm, and starts on the next. “There isn’t a part of you that doesn’t have my love.”

 

Strange, not having that cold, constant pressure that nearly leaves his fingers numb at times--stranger still having Sinbad kiss his way up a bare arm, his skin twitching and shivering beneath every brush of his lips, simply _unused_ to the feeling after so long. "You _are_ in a mood today," Ja'far murmurs fondly, chest heaving with a soft exhale. "Arrogance, romanticism…" 

 

“Don’t forget stubbornness and sentimentalism,” Sinbad reminds him, giving the second arm the same treatment, lips lingering on each old familiar scar. “And yet, you still want me between your legs. What does that say about you, old friend?”

 

"That I have grown tolerant," Ja'far laughs, unable to stop from squirming a bit, his fingers curling into a fist. "And perhaps I find it endearing, maybe even _cute_ , in a way."

 

Sinbad gives him a sour look, and slides up the familiar robes, parting them with the ease of far too much practice (and at the same time, never enough, never enough, every moment wouldn’t be enough). He parts his own robes, letting them fall from his shoulders, wrapping Ja’far up in broad, strong arms and kissing him again. “If you had an assistant,” he murmurs, “you wouldn’t wind up in my bed for stress relief, and you could be here simply because you wanted to.”

 

At that, Ja'far bites-- _gently_ , but a pressure on the other man's lower lip all the same as his fingers tug on Sinbad's long ponytail. "Either way, I am here because I _want to be_ ," he simply retorts, squirming his way up against Sinbad's chest. "Stress or no stress. Stop talking about assistants, it makes my head hurt." 

 

“You just don’t like to share. That’s fine, I want you all to myself.” 

 

Sinbad flips Ja’far over with a grin, trailing long kisses down Ja’far’s spine, hands running from freckled shoulders down to cup his ass, gently squeezing. There’s something so elusive about Ja’far, no matter how many times they’ve shared a bed, that Sinbad always feels as if he’ll find something new every time. “I found a new freckle,” he declares, and celebrates by sucking on the spot.

 

"That's--ahh--a _lie_ , how can you even _tell_ \--" Ja'far groans, burying his face down into a pillow as his arms circle around it to _squeeze_ out some of the shuddery, wriggly sort of tension that immediately rakes up his spine. "If I have new ones, they're _your_ fault, from whenever I join you on the beach."

 

“I gladly take responsibility,” Sinbad assures him, parting from the little spot with a last nibble of his teeth. “Mmm, I can always tell when you’ve thrown out a new spot. Do you put it past me to have memorized them--oh, another new one,” he says delightedly, and fastens his lips to it.

 

"You can't _possibly_ have them memorized." Ja'far shivers, trying his best not to _squirm_ , no matter how impossible it is to suppress that impulse. "That _tickles_ , you know." 

 

“Mmm, well, perhaps not _now_ ,” Sinbad allows, rubbing a thumb over the little forming red spot. “But I certainly did before you started adding new ones. I’ll have to start over again.”

 

"There can't be that many more of them, I feel like I haven't seen the sun in weeks." He sighs, stretching languidly beneath the touch. "I'm going to be covered in enough marks from you by the end of this that you'll be able to play more games of connect-the-dots."

 

“You may not have been in the sun in weeks,” Sinbad allows, “but how long is it since you let me between your legs? You’ve been busy, as of late.” He nuzzles down between Ja’far’s shoulderblades, playing his own game connecting the dots with the tip of his tongue.

 

"Mm…mmn, that's true," Ja'far admits with a shaky little exhale, his cheek pressing down into the pillow as his eyes lid. His skin fairly _twitches_ beneath the slide of Sinbad's tongue, and he twists his head a bit more to watch out of the corner of his eye, amused. "Do you like them so much?"

 

“I surely do.” Sinbad flicks his tongue over another little brown dot, and another, nibbling his way up the curve of one shoulder. “They’re such a mystery. Everyone calls them sun-spots but even when you _are_ in the sun, you’re covered head to ankle. Where do they come from? I must investigate.”

 

"They just _happen_ \--ah, _quit_ already." He isn't whining. All right, he might be, just a little, and ugh, _god_ , Sinbad must like to torture him. Ja'far shudders, reaching a hand back to snatch up a handful of Sinbad's hair that tumbles down, no matter what little _good_ it does him, when Sinbad is content to nip and suck on his skin all the same. "There's nothing to _investigate_. I've just always had them--ah, you're going to suck them _off_ , you know--"

 

“If I haven’t by now,” Sinbad points out, “I’m hardly going to at this point. Still…” 

 

He leans up, turning his head to brush a kiss against Ja’far’s lips, and urges his legs wider, rocking forward to drag his cock up between Ja’far’s thighs. “I can think of other ways you could keep me entertained.”

 

It's hard to stifle the soft huff of amusement that follows that. "Look how hard you are just from trying to scrape my freckles off," Ja'far teases, even as he shifts backwards, pushing up just a bit to better rub himself back against Sinbad's cock with a little, hitching sigh. "Just when I think I am _sure_ I know most of what gets you off…" 

 

“A better question,” Sinbad admits, “would be to ask what doesn’t get me off, especially when it comes to you. More ways have occurred to me in my solitary dreamings than you’ve ever imagined.” 

 

He lays his cheek on Ja’far’s shoulder, moving slow, easy to start with, enjoying the press of Ja’far’s skin against his cock.

 

"You are really just…" _Impossible? Incorrigible? Odd?_ Ahh, definitely all of that. What does that say about him, though, when he's pushing himself up further onto his knees, sliding back with his legs parted to let Sinbad's cock slide between his thighs, and _liking_ the man that is all of those things so very much? Ja'far shivers, his eyes lidded as he squirms to bring his knees closer together, reaching back and underneath himself to curl his fingers loosely over Sinbad's cock, guiding it better between his thighs and biting his lip at the slick, hot slide of it against his skin. "If… you'd rather put it in, you can," he breathlessly allows, his skin flushing hot with the words.

 

Sinbad’s cock throbs at the words and the touch, hips twitching forward in little circles to press into Ja’far’s hand. For a moment, he considers asking Ja’far to prepare himself, slide in his fingers and open himself up, but maybe that’s a little much to ask of himself, when he hasn’t had the luxury of touching Ja’far in an age. He reaches for the oil himself, dragging a pair of slick fingers up the cleft of Ja’far’s ass. “Hmm, you’re so stressed lately...doubtless you’re going to be tight today.”

 

Ja'far swallows hard, skin reddening further as he buries it down into the pillow. It _has_ been awhile, and even the touch of Sinbad's fingers makes his muscles twitch, his thighs quivering as he draws in a slow, measured breath to try and relax. "I'll be fine," he murmurs, no less eager no matter the tension, and he shifts, setting his knees a bit further apart. "Just don't tease me about it." 

 

Sinbad slides a long finger inside, slowly twisting, curling, dragging another long kiss up Ja’far’s spine. “So warm inside,” he murmurs, eyes half-closed at the thought of being buried inside that tight heat. “So soft.” 

 

He adds another, and ah, even that’s a bit of a stretch, Ja’far clenching on him so tightly his fingers ache a little. It’s as if Ja’far forgets _how_ to relax the second they part from each other, but that’s all right. He doesn’t mind working for it. “Open up for me.”

 

"Trying," is the breathlessly mumbled reply, his eyes fluttering as his hips twitch backward on their own accord, sliding back against Sinbad's had no matter how his body winds tighter still. A shuddering breath, and Ja'far manages to relax _just a bit_ , his body aching with every slide of those fingers, thighs quivering and toes curling. _Sinbad is much bigger_ , he reminds himself, and that makes him groan, his face hot enough to be painful as he buries it down into the pillow. "J…just… it's fine, I'm fine--"

 

Sinbad rather doubts how _fine_ Ja’far is when he’s wound this tightly, but at least this usually helps a lot more than any massage. He pulls his fingers free, slicking himself with so much oil that he’s dripping, rubbing the head of his cock against that tight little hole. “You are, aren’t you?” he murmurs, and ah, it takes _effort_ to slide the head inside, tight as Ja’far is. “You prefer opening…this way? On my cock, not my fingers?”

 

A heaving, panting breath follows as Ja'far mindlessly nods, no matter how even that first push inside is far, _far_ too much, and god, even the head is a stretch, thick and no matter how slippery, it still makes him _groan_ , his voice breaking on a whimper shortly afterwards. "Yes… y-yes, god yes." His fingers twist into the sheets, white-knuckled as he tries to focus some of his tension _there_ instead, and that makes it a _little_ easier to slide back, nearly sobbing with each hard, heavy inch. "Ahh… g-god, Sin--"

 

Sinbad hisses out a breath, that slick hot tightness squeezing him enough to make him see stars. He drags a soothing hand down Ja’far’s back, then down his front, stealing up to pinch and rub over a nipple. “I remember sitting you on my lap in public,” he breathes into Ja’far’s ear, nibbling on the lobe, “and playing with you here.”

 

 _That_ sends a hot _bolt_ of arousal down his spine, his already hard cock _throbbing_. Ja'far's mouth falls open as he lurches, unable to stop himself from sagging into the pinch and pull of Sinbad's fingers. "You're… an awful pervert still," he groans, biting his lip as he wriggles his way back, panting too hot and too fast. "You'd… you'd do it still, if you thought you _could._ "

 

“I certainly would.” Sinbad slides in a little more, out just enough, and in a few more inches, trying, _trying_ to take it slow. “You know, me, Ja’far. Do you think there’s a way, a place I _haven’t_ imagined having you?” It’s so easy to remember the little metal ring, how Ja’far wriggled when he pulled on it, to pinch and tug now, to feel the soft warmth of Ja’far’s thighs against his own and remember what it feels like to have Ja’far on his _lap_.

 

 _Probably not_ is what Ja'far wants to say, but there's little hope for that when all he can do is mewl, writhing, shivering on Sinbad's cock in a way that he's _sure_ makes him look like a harlot. His face burns, every inch of him feels shivery, uselessly so as his knees already threaten to buckle, and ah, god, he's not even in all the way yet, no matter how Ja'far _wants_ him to be. "So _have me_ ," he pleads, voice hitching. "Want you, so please--"

 

“When will you realize,” Sinbad says with a groan, sliding _hard_ the rest of the way into Ja’far, “that you _have_ me?” 

 

An easy rock of his hips, and another, and suddenly it isn’t so easy to keep from going hard, and fast, and filling Ja’far over and over, knowing how he _writhes_ when it’s too much and wanting to hear the cries he tries so hard to bite back. Every tremble he lets out around Sinbad’s cock nearly sends him over the edge, and it’s a work of immense effort not to come so soon, sucking hard on a patch of freckles.

 

There's no _use_ in trying to keep his voice down now, not when Sinbad is so _deep_ inside of him, leaving him to gasp and squirm and god, no matter how he spreads, it helps _nothing_ , it only makes him feel all the more stuffed full when he's pulled back onto Sinbad's cock and left sobbing. 

 

"S… Sin--" The man's _mouth_ is a torment in and of itself, and Ja'far's eyes glaze as he arches his back, whining as Sinbad's cock presses that much _deeper_ and ah, god, he can't _breathe_. He huffs into the sheets, blinking hard against tears to no avail. "Use me-- _fuck me_ , please, it's been so long…" 

 

“I’ll take care of you.”

 

It’s a breathless promise Sinbad lets out, and his hands slide down hard to Ja’far’s waist, yanking him back now into every hard thrust, hearing a soft _slap_ every time they come together, feeling Ja’far shiver and shudder at being _filled_. Every thrust is demanding, his hands relentless, and Sinbad has to bite down on Ja’far’s shoulder to keep his head at being buried so _deep_. “This what you want? All of me, in you?”

 

Ja'far thinks he nods. He probably does, never mind that his mind glazes with every pull of Sinbad's hands, every shove of his hips, and he chokes on his breath, chest heaving and his entire body little more than a wriggling, shivering thing no matter how he _tries_ to squirm his way back and take _more_. 

 

"A-all of you--I--" Times like this, and Ja'far _likes_ the idea of being Sinbad's whore, of being pulled back onto his cock and filled until he can't take it anymore, until he's sobbing and panting into the sheets, moaning out the man's name. That's definitely now, and his cock aches and throbs with each dig of those long, strong fingers into his skin, each slide of Sinbad's cock deep inside of him, and there's no helping how fast he comes, spilling onto the sheets with a ragged, broken sound, muffled into the pillow as he bites down onto it. 

 

One hand fists in the silvery moonlight that is Ja’far’s hair, forcing his head down into the sheets. The other clenches too tight on one pale hip, dragging him up and back no matter how he’s done, no matter how he’s trembling and sore and _used_ , and all Sinbad can spare is a mutter of, “Just a little more, I’ll be quick.”

 

It’s the least he can do when he can’t _handle_ himself around Ja’far, can’t be thrust inside him without slamming home deep, Ja’far’s ass reddening with the smack of his hips on every thrust, the suddenly slicker tight heat of him clenching and spasming, and Sinbad lets out an almighty groan when he finally comes, flooding hot and wet into Ja’far, collapsing down on top of him with a grunt that might have been something of an apology.

 

Ja'far mumbles something dismissive into the pillow, shuddering as he sinks down into the mattress when his legs promptly give out entirely. It's obscene how much he likes--for now, at least, he'll regret it later and wonder what he was thinking--how Sinbad feels still inside of him, everything slick and hot and _messy_ , and Ja'far shivers, lifting his head just enough to rub his cheek back against the other man's, unperturbed by the weight of him for now. 

 

“Stay.”

 

The single word is all Sinbad can manage, hand sliding down one pale arm to find a hand, and squeeze.

 

"Not going anywhere," Ja'far mumbles, his fingers curling beneath Sinbad's. "You have me effectively trapped, anyway." 

 

“Good. I’m holding you prisoner from work. Or hostage. Pick your preference, as long as I get to sleep with you in my arms tonight.”

 

"Or perhaps I am a willing runaway just this once," he groans, burying his face back down into the pillow. "I don't want to get up." _I wonder if I even can, my legs feel like a damned newborn colt's._

 

“Good.” Sinbad presses a sloppy kiss to Ja’far’s cheek, and his eyes finally slide shut. “Getting up is outlawed. Effective immediately. Expires tomorrow morning or whenever I need to relieve myself.”

 

"… If you get up to bring me breakfast in the morning, I might stay a bit longer." Sinbad likes it when he asks things of him, doesn't he? 

 

“My dear Ja’far,” Sinbad murmurs, already half-asleep, “your every wish is my command.”

 

~~

 

It’s many, many hours before Sinbad wakes, and for that he entirely blames the warm soft figure who only just barely tolerates his touch. Ja’far can be plenty affectionate, but his sleep is a bit more sacred, and Sinbad considers it a mark both of how much Ja’far trusts him and of how _exhausted_ he must be that Ja’far lets him spoon up behind him at all, when he’d rather curl into a little ball on the far side of the bed.

 

A long sleep, Ja’far in his arms and several good dreams mean that it’s a lovely, easy way to wake up, even if he is a bit... _overeager_ for such an early hour. That’s fine, he’s hardly in a hurry, content to press languidly against Ja’far’s buttocks and nestle in, the gentle pressure as good in a way as friction, for the time being. There are hours and days and decades left, and he’s in no hurry.

 

It's a long, languid thing when Ja'far finally does stir, rousing only when the sun starts to creep up and cast light over his face. Ja'far stretches, shifting, contently _warm_ with the curl of Sinbad's body around him--something he rarely allows in sleep, and ah, he must have been _tired_ … 

 

Oh.

 

Heat quickly rises to his face when he _realizes_ , feeling the press of Sinbad's cock against him. It's hardly the first time, and at least Sinbad isn't being pushy about it… though in a way, Ja'far almost wishes he was. He must still be tired if he's thinking like that, but it _does_ sort of feel nice… 

 

"Good morning to you, too," he murmurs with a soft huff of breath, and shifts back, just a slight encouragement. 

 

Any thoughts of not being in any kind of a hurry drift out the window at the little murmurs and breaths Ja’far lets out, faster with that push back against him, and Sinbad nuzzles forward behind one freckled ear. “Good, you’re awake. This is less indecent if you’re awake,” he says with a rueful little grin, shifting so he can slide forward between the soft pliant warmth of Ja’far’s thighs. “A little less indecent, anyway. Do you mind terribly?”

 

Ja'far sighs, long and easy and warm, and lets his head tip back against Sinbad's shoulder as his thighs press better together, squeezing around the hard length of Sinbad's cock. This shouldn't make arousal pool in his belly as hot and eager as it does, but there's always something about how much _Sinbad_ enjoys it… "Mmn, hardly," he says, breath hitching as he slides a hand down, his thumb dragging over the head of Sinbad's cock as it slides forward. "Once in awhile… waking up like this is fine." 

 

“Too good to do all the time,” Sinbad agrees, already twitching and eager against Ja’far’s wandering fingers. “I’d never get anything done. Ah...just like that, perfect…”

 

His teeth scrape gently against Ja’far’s neck, arm coming around his waist to pull him just a little closer as he rocks, slow and easy and really, truly _enjoying_ himself. “Do you want me to take care of you?” he murmurs, hand trailing down a few inches toward Ja’far’s cock. “Or do it yourself?”

 

Ja'far shivers, wriggling his way back until he's pressed so tightly up against Sinbad that there's nothing else he can _feel_ but the man's warmth, the strong, hard lines of muscle, and his own cock throbs, the twisting heat in his belly enough to make his vision briefly blur. "Ah… you do it," he mumbles, face hot as he quietly admits, "I've missed feeling your hands on me, after so long." 

 

“Your skin is so soft.” Sinbad drags a hand down, roughened fingertips ghosting over his lower abdomen before wrapping gently around the hardening shaft, stroking slowly from base to tip, easy, languid pulls of his hand, and it _does_ feel good to be touching Ja’far like this again. “I’m so rough next to you. You must have bruises from last night still.”

 

He’d tried to sound contrite, but there’s little hope for sincerity when his hips twitch forward at just the thought of it.

 

"… I hope so." It's a breathless admittance, and Ja'far's eyes flutter as his hips cant up into Sinbad's hand, his thighs quivering, squeezing tighter still with each little shudder that rakes down his spine. It's _obscene_ how good Sinbad's cock feels there, so hard and hot between his legs, and Ja'far swallows hard as he glances down to watch both the drag of Sinbad's hand and the slide of his cock between his thighs, slicker with each thrust. "I probably look… like I got eaten alive." 

 

Sinbad raises up on his elbow to look down, and a low growl rises in his throat at the sight of the red marks, the welts from human fingernails, the groups of five bruises here, five there. “By a wild beast,” he rumbles, breath hitching at the press of Ja’far’s thighs around him. 

 

It’s early still, and he’s too drowsily content to be concerned with _stamina_ in his own bed. Better still is letting himself topple easily off the precipice, giving a last bite to the side of Ja’far’s neck as he spills hot and messy, cock dragging back and forth until Ja’far is sticky from front to back, breath ragged as he stills but for his hand, stroking gently back and forth, thumb rubbing over the head.

 

Ja'far's breath hitches, a groan rumbling in his throat at the _sight_ of Sinbad spilling over his thighs, never mind the sticky, slick aftermath that leaves him trembling, muscles bunching and his chest heaving as he sucks in a sharp breath. Just then, Sinbad's _hand_ is too much, every slide and drag of those calloused fingertips enough to make him squirm, and it's with a ragged inhale that he comes, biting his lip as he spills over Sinbad's fist, eyes squeezing shut as Ja'far sinks back against him.

 

“I like you best like this.”

 

Sinbad’s voice is little more than a whisper in Ja’far’s ear, breath hot and uneven still, arms curling tight around his midsection. “Filthy with me, marked up and warm and sated in my arms, smelling of me...just like this.”

 

"God, you _would_ ," Ja'far has to laugh, albeit a bit raggedly as he wriggles his way back all the same, his head lolling back against Sinbad's shoulder. "Lucky for you, you are very warm and comfortable to lie against on mornings like these." 

 

“There aren’t enough mornings like these.” Sinbad presses a kiss to his shoulder, sighing through his nose. “Only after some great tragedy or battle. You should share my bed in peacetime more, maybe I’d be inclined to preserve it for longer.”

 

"If you start wars just to have me in your bed more often, I guarantee it will produce the opposite effect," Ja'far warns, his eyes lidding. 

 

“There, there’s incentive for peace already. You are one hell of an advisor.”

 

An amused snort follows that, and Ja'far shifts, twisting in Sinbad's arms to face him before a light shove lands the other man flat on his back. "I'm well-aware," is the suitably arrogant retort, and Ja'far slings a leg over Sinbad's hips to straddle him. "No more wars if we can help it. They give me hives worse than paperwork withdrawal."

 

"King Sinbad! Your Majesty--"

 

The knock on the door makes Ja'far scramble quicker than anything, diving beneath the covers in an instant just before it swings open, courtesy of one over-eager messenger--unfazed, of course, by Sinbad's state of undress (most are, within Sindria). "Your Majesty--it's early, I realize, but I couldn't find Ja'far to send you this--it seems a number of foreign dignitaries will be visiting on very short notice, I have a list--"

 

 _Couldn't find Ja'far indeed_ , the advisor in question bemoans, trying his best not to _move,_ lest he is labeled _unidentifiable female #39789._

 

Sinbad doesn’t even try not to laugh. He props himself up on his elbows, amused at just how obvious the lump under the sheets is both to him and to the messenger, and beckons a finger for the missive. “I’ll have that list, thank you. When will they be arriving, and have any stated a purpose that doesn’t sound like a lie?”

 

"Within the next day," the messenger offers, stepping closer to hand the scroll over. "And it seems like the general purpose has something to do with the other Magi that is still here, Yunan." 

 

Sinbad’s eyebrows raise at that, and he scans the list. “Hmm, quite a bit of actual royalty. No wonder. Inform--ah, perhaps I’d better be in charge of finding and informing Ja’far. Alert Berthild to prepare, oh, as many guest rooms as she can manage. Doubtless there will be others that did not bother to invite themselves formally. Go, and quickly, time may be short.”

 

"Yes, Your Majesty, of course."

 

The messenger leaves with haste, and it's only after the door shuts that Ja'far slowly slinks out from underneath the covers, flushed hot and looking decidedly like he wants to be thrown into the ocean. "… So locking your door is a _difficult_ thing, is it?" 

 

Sinbad waves a hand at that. “I have an advisor who hates it when I lock my door for fear something will go wrong and he won’t be able to crash through the door in time. No matter, what’s to be done about those who don’t fit in the palace?”

 

Ja'far is going to kill Sinbad himself one of these days. "Send the Magi away, the royalty will follow. Really, are you _surprised?_ A Magi without a chosen king sits on your throne for a few days, it's a small wonder he hasn't attracted them like bees to honey _sooner_." 

 

Sinbad rakes a hand back through his hair. “They may arrive any day. How do I tell Yunan to leave without making it sound as if I’m hurrying him away? He could sink us into the sea with a bat of his eyelashes, I’m hardly going to…”

 

He trails off, thinking. “Then again,” he says slowly, “he _might_ think it’s funny. If I know him at all…”

 

"… Then I _do_ hope that you know him," Ja'far grumbles, and he swings his legs over the side of the bed, grabbing for a sheet for modesty's sake. "And here I thought _our_ Magi was odd. Last I checked, he had made something of a _nest_ on your throne."

 

Sinbad’s face falls, and he makes a hopeless little grab at Ja’far, attempting to shove the sheet away. “Hey, before we were interrupted you were climbing on me, I’m all for pretending that never happened!”

 

Ja'far huffs, batting his hands away. "And if someone else walks in and sees?" 

 

“I’ll lock the door this time, I’ll _behave_ \--”

 

"How about this." Ja'far leans close again. "Get all of this mess sorted out, finish up the _rest_ of your work in a timely manner, and you can drag me back here tonight, should nothing _else_ come up." 

 

Sinbad pauses for a moment, thinking. “As much as my natural inclination is to take pleasure now against later,” he says slowly, “just once, I’ll take you up on that.” It’s incentive enough to spring from bed and dress in a flash, pausing just before running out the door. “Do I look kingly?”

 

"Let me draw you a _bath_ first--" Ugh, deaf ears, always deaf ears. Ja'far sighs, rubbing one temple. "Yes, you look _very_ kingly, with your hair tousled and marks all over your neck. Same as always. Go on, then."

 

Sinbad stops just long enough to brush a kiss across Ja’far’s cheek. “I’m holding you to that promise!” he calls over his shoulder. 

 

In the throne room, he notices with some dismay that Ja’far isn’t far wrong. Yunan _has_ made something of a nest, out of the blankets his room had been furnished with and enough loose feathers from the pillows to give a rather uncanny impression. Sinbad gives him a low bow, appreciating the irony as he knows Yunan will, and approaches. “Wisest of the Wise, your visit is legend. I come to warn you of interesting things, should you permit my presence.”

 

Yunan sleepily cracks open an eye and he stretches, back arching as he uncoils himself from the little ball he's wrapped himself up into amongst his pillows and blankets. "Interesting things?" he echoes, and it takes a bit of effort not to simply roll off of the throne to the floor. Instead, he dangles rather lazily over the side of it, his hair an equally mussed tumble as he tilts his head. "Hopefully as interesting as _your_ morning has been. Nice love bites, there, O Great King." 

 

Sinbad blinks in surprise, hand flying to his neck to brush over it. “When did he find time to--ah, no matter,” he dismisses cheerfully. “And here I thought he got the worst of it. Ah, well. It seems that word of your presence has been spreading, O Magnificent Magi.” He takes a knee, a bit closer than he would to a Magi that didn’t look quite so attractive mussed and rumpled. “Sindria is about to play host to a few dozen assorted nobles, no doubt come to seek your hand in marriage of the minds.”

 

He can't help but _stare_. "You're _serious_ , aren't you?" And now he's laughing. Giggling, Yunan shoves his face down into a pillow. "Oh, like _who?_ There isn't a king alive that I find even remotely amusing other than you, nor one with a throne that I can turn into quite as acceptable of a bed."

 

Sinbad’s mouth broadens into a grin. “I knew you’d find it amusing. So, what I beg of you is none other than this: entertain them, perhaps send them caustically running, but...slowly, would you? If I have earned any of your favor, do let me play my own games for a bit.”

 

"By all means, have at them," Yunan laughs, flopping over onto his back. "Ahhh, gods, this is why I never go out and about. _People_. Annoying people that call themselves kings. Honestly, what is the _standard_ for that nowadays? I don't understand." 

 

“I call myself a king,” Sinbad points out. “Though I do believe a healthy disrespect for inheritance goes a long way towards it.” He looks around the throne, eyebrow raised. “Have you been properly attended by the servants? Shall I fetch you any nuts and seeds perhaps, and scatter them about?”

 

Yunan offers him a rather dry look at that. "I'd rather feast on the flesh and blood of my enemies."

 

“Are any of them about in Sindria?” Sinbad asks mildly. “I would hate not to give you your desired sustenance. Have any oxen or sheep recently wronged you, perhaps?”

 

"No, and they're rather cute, besides. It's difficult for me to eat things with a face like that." He stretches out a leg, dangling it over the other side of the throne. "I'm fine. I assure you, your servants have been very accommodating, though a number of the girls are a bit too flirtatious. I can't imagine where they picked that habit up from."

 

“They’re accustomed to being encouraged,” Sinbad admits without a hint of remorse. “And indulged, and rather handsomely rewarded.” He relaxes back onto his knees, looking up with a curious, interested expression. “I have a favor to ask, though feel free to decline.” _You will anyway._

 

"Mmm? And what would that be?" 

 

“Could you show him to me?” It’s the closest thing he’s felt to shy in decades, such a childish request, but he can’t quite help himself. “With light magic, or some conjuration, as he was? I’ve--I’ve always pictured him a certain way. I’d love to know if I was right.”

 

Well, he's certainly entirely awake now. Yunan's eyebrows slowly lift. "… You're really _that_ curious? Is this a creative form of jealousy, or just you being oddly cute?" 

 

“They used to tell legends about him, when I grew up.” He rarely speaks of his childhood, and avoids it now, eyes slightly unfocused as he remembers. “They said there were many languages in those days, and he spoke them all, and had a thousand wives, and ruled all the lands together, and lived for hundreds of years, and was the wisest of all men. They _said_ ,” he says slowly, “his wisdom was given by a wish to the greatest genie who ever lived, so great it could create the earth with a breath.” He curls his legs under himself, a smile quirking his lips. “It’s so hard to imagine him as a man, rather than a god, but you...you _knew_ him, didn’t you?”

 

Not jealousy; definitely the oddly cute option instead.

 

While Yunan is fairly certain _he_ is immune to flattery after so long, he is hardly immune to praise bestowed upon his king. _You'd like this, you arrogant git,_ he fondly thinks. _Another great king, though not as great as you, praising you like a boy idolizing a hero._  

 

"… I was hardly any more a genie then than I am now, so the stories could use a bit of tweaking," Yunan muses, draping an arm over the side of the throne as he shifts with a sigh. "But I _was_ his Magi, so that is close enough, I suppose. You understand why I am picky, I hope." 

 

“I never doubted it. After the first moment,” Sinbad admits. “I didn’t know then, about him. I thought you led me to that dungeon to test me, and when you didn’t choose me…”

 

He shrugs his shoulders. “It just took me a bit longer. And I learned I was not so great as I had hoped,” he adds softly. “They say every djinn in the world belonged to Solomon. I am not so unlimited.”

 

"And neither was he," Yunan mirthfully replied, dropping his chin onto the arm of the throne. "If you think he wielded them all so easily, you are wrong. He was still merely _human_. They might have belonged to him, but he still needed quite a bit of help in raising them. To have seven on your person at any given time is still an impressive enough feat… ahh, you just weren't _him_. In the flesh. It had nothing to do whether you were as _strong_ as he was. I just want him to come back, eventually, and I thought for a moment that might have been you." 

 

It's not a request he would normally grant--he doesn't savor torturing himself with memories and illusions of his own making, not after so long--but a little, lazy wave of his hand warps the light all the same, bringing forth the tall, broad form of Solomon in his finest robes, his long, dark hair tumbling loose. "I still like you well enough, Sinbad, don't worry. I'm just old, and have my mind made up."

 

Sinbad rises from the ground slowly, eyes locked on the image. Every story he’d ever read as a child, hidden away from the others and lit by stolen matches one after the other, every old wives’ tale attributed to the wisdom of Solomon, every abandoned relic with that fateful seal on it--they’d all formed an image in his mind, and such things are nearly always misleading.

 

This one hadn’t been.

 

Solomon looks exactly as he’d imagined somehow, with slight differences in coloring and size. “He looks,” he says, eyes nearly shining in awe, “like what a king should be.”

 

"Not to be confused with the little idiots running around today, hmm? Ah, I don't include you when I whine about kings, mind," Yunan adds, sighing as he waves the image away as quickly as he'd conjured it. "Honestly, why any of these fools flouncing into Sindria think they can compare… are any of them even dungeon capturers? Boring."

 

Sinbad fights the urge to protest, to ask to see it again. It’s engrained on his mind in any case. “One, perhaps two,” he answers, looking at the list. “Certainly boring. No multiple dungeon capturers, of course.”

 

He strides to the window, gazing out at the flourishing land. “They’ve seen what having a Magi at my side has done for Sindria,” he says by way of explanation. “We’ve thrived beyond any expectation. It’s little wonder that anyone with a patch of land would come to seek you out now, unworthy though they may be. After all,” he adds, amusement coloring his voice more than frustration, “a street rat from the slums won a Magi’s heart once, and a self-made brigand another time. That’s what they’ll say, those who aren’t the slightest bit noble.”

 

"You and the street rat are at least cute, though," Yunan tiredly sighs, curling back up into his self-made nest. "Ah, well. I'll find some measure of amusement in this, at any rate, as I'm sure you will. I'll greet them like this, even; let's see how many flee at the sight." 

 

Sinbad has to laugh. “They’ll say I’m collecting Magi, to find you on my throne--or that I’m ruled by them. I must say, I’m hardly bothered by either tale.” Ah, that prompts an idea for his next book, and he makes a mental note not to forget. “What tasks will you set them, to determine their worth?”

 

"We can start with 'trying not to drown in the ocean.' A king should know how to swim, you would be amazed to know how many cannot." 

 

“At least one that would never have been chosen had he been properly tested,” Sinbad mutters under his breath, memories of being limbless and bobbing in saltwater never quite far enough. “A shame you won’t be testing current kings. I’d dearly love to see a certain Empress trying to stay afloat with all the finery she wears.”

 

"Oh, I don't like that one," Yunan immediately replies with a frown. "Zadi had poor taste there, I wish I had been around to advise her against it. And actually, Aladdin's is rather questionable, but he has good intentions at heart, at least, so I can see the reasoning. It pains me to know that Al-Sarmen teaches a Magi better tactics in choosing a king than anyone else." 

 

“Any praise from you,” Sinbad says with genuine gratitude, “is well worth the ignobility of poor company. You know I didn’t allow him to choose me when he was their dog. I have my own standards.”

 

"Yes, very good. He's a good match for you, no matter how he gets on my nerves, the little brat," Yunan mutters, trying not to roll his eyes. "Well, at any rate. Wake me when they start to arrive, I assume you have your own preparations to attend to. Look nice or something, one of us has to, that's what Solomon always used to say, and I can assure you it was never _me_ that bothered getting dressed up or at all." 

 


	7. Chapter 7

Of course, word of that spreads quickly, with less than satisfying results, in some cases.

 

"Aladdin, you _have_ to look nice! Don't you get it?"

 

Alibaba might be pacing in hopes of letting off some steam, though it isn't doing him much good as time wears on. "Do you _know_ how much foreign nobility is going to be coming through here? If they see me-- _us_ \--they're just going to keep thinking Balbadd is some run-down little port country! We have to look nice-- _just_ as nice as Sinbad and Judal always do, at least for a _few_ days!" 

 

Aladdin’s smile falters. “You always look great, Alibaba! I’m not a prince, they’re not going to be expecting me to be anything fancy.” He certainly isn’t going to have to wear itchy things, is he? Magnoshuttat was bad enough.

 

"… You're a _Magi_ ," Alibaba slowly points out. "Look, it's just for a little while. Come on, do you really want to be next to Judal when he's that dolled up while you're dressed like you normally are?" 

 

Aladdin blinks. “Judal likes the way I look. I think he’d be confused if we were _both_ fancy.”

 

Alibaba groans. "I think he'd understand if it's for something this important! Geez, the guy is used to being dressed up, I think he'd know why you need to be, too." 

 

“Well _I_ don’t know why I have to be. It’s not like you--you don’t want to choose another Magi, do you?” Aladdin asks, his eyes wide and alarmed. “Am I not fancy enough? Do you not like my vest?”

 

"Your vest is fine! Just--just not when a ton of nobles show up and--look, I'm not after another Magi, I just want you to look _really nice_ for a day or two, okay?" Alibaba desperately attempts, reaching out to give Aladdin's shoulders a squeeze. "Please? Just once, I won't ask you to do it again. You won't need to once Balbadd is in great shape again, you can be like Yunan and never brush your hair for all I care."

 

Aladdin’s mouth twists at that. “I don’t know, a lot of birds go in his hair when he goes outside…” He sighs, butting his head against Alibaba’s shoulder. “I’ll try. For you.”

 

Hours later, he collapses onto Judal’s bed with a groan, buried in clothes brought up by the servants. “I don’t _get_ it. Why do I have to be fancy? I’m not fancy! Look, I have a jewel on my forehead, jewels are fancy!”

 

Judal sighs over at him, nonplussed and draped in little more than a dressing robe of his own, his hair still damp from a recent bath. "Come to think of it, I never _have_ seen you dress up a day in your life. You'd probably die in Kou," he remarks, taking a bite out of a peach. "Layers and layers. Really heavy brocade and stuff. Sindria's nothing compared to that." 

 

“Gross. I dressed up when I went to school,” Aladdin groans. “That was bad enough. It had sleeves.”

 

"… That's not dressing up, that's just wearing clothes. What, do you have an allergy or something?" 

 

Aladdin squirms around, head hanging off the edge of the bed. “I get hot. And itchy. And I...lose them. Not always on purpose.”

 

"Of all the things for you to be a baby about, I didn't expect it to be over this," Judal slowly says, sort of in awe by it. Really, over _clothes?_ Weird, when getting dressed up is easy and looking nice for one's king something that's supposed to be _fun_. "Well, whatever. I'll make sure you look nice. Take that ratty old vest off already, bandages, too--why do you even _wear_ those?" 

 

Aladdin scrambles up onto the bed, eyes shifting from left to right. “Ugo gave me this vest,” he explains. “His fingers were so big it took him forever to make it, and he made it really loose so I could grow up and wear the same one.” He folds his arms over his chest. “You can find me something that goes over the bandages, right?”

 

"Oh, just take them off," Judal grumbles, swallowing another bite of his peach before setting it aside and walking over to the bed. "And I'm not gonna throw your vest away or anything, just--you can't wear it right now, c'mon." 

 

With less apprehension than annoyance, Aladdin shrugs off his vest, folding it--ah, it really is getting threadbare--and setting it off to the side. He folds his arms again. “Clothes, please.”

 

Judal squints at him. "… Do you have a scar or something that you don't want me to see?" Come to think of it, Aladdin _has_ never taken those things off, has he? At least, not outside of bathing, and even then, it's pretty fast and Judal doesn't really get to _see_. He sets a knee to the bed, reaching over to hook his fingers into the bandages. "C'moooon, take 'em off, I wanna see your nipples." 

 

Aladdin lets out a noise that even _he_ thinks is undignified, scrambling backwards to no avail with his back against the headboard, squirming under Judal’s hands. “N-no, I just--they kept rubbing against my vest and then they got _sunburned_ so--leave it aloooone…”

 

Oh, it's even more fun when Aladdin makes noises like that, and when he _struggles…_ Judal can't help but grin a little too wickedly, a swift _yank_ unravelling the mess of the bandages, and he's almost disappointed not to see an interesting scar or something else a bit more odd. "Cute tan lines," he teases, running a thumb over the line between paler and darker skin. "So _whiny_ today. What's the deal, do you not want me to bite them? They're cute and asking for it." 

 

This is _not_ Aladdin’s idea of fun. Fun is when _Judal_ is wriggling around making fun noises, not when _he’s_ doing it. He bats at Judal’s hands, starts to squirm away, but Judal is a lot stronger than he pretends to be when they’re rolling around, and if he doesn’t want to make this a _fight_ … “They’re just really _sensitive_ ,” he complains.

 

Oops. Aladdin probably shouldn't have told him that.

 

"Ooh?" Judal's eyes lid, and it takes but a second for him to lurch forward, fingers dragging playfully down over one nipple before gently _pinching_. "Then I'll be nice." It's the last warning he gives before his mouth closes around the other one, hot and slick as his tongue drags over it, and his teeth shortly after.

 

Aladdin’s eyes go wide, then he squeezes them shut, trying to stay calm, but that’s _intense_. The feeling sparks in his chest, verging between painful and exciting, like electricity, like when he can’t tell if he’s holding ice or flame, and he’s left helpless, wriggling around and making awful, pathetic squeaking noises.

 

Worse still, his cock has never been harder, and in only a few seconds.

 

That's just not fair. How is he supposed to be _nice_ when Aladdin is making noises like that? Eagerly, Judal wriggles up further between his legs, pausing when his thigh drags between Aladdin's and he _feels_ how hard the man already is. "Tell me again," he breathes, one hand's fingers pinching, _pulling_ , twisting just a little, "why you wouldn't let me do this before?" It's all the manages before the impulse to bite again is just too strong, and his teeth close over the sensitive-- _too_ sensitive nub, pulling just a bit before he sucks on it with a firm lave of his tongue.

 

“B-be….be...c-cause…”

 

Aladdin can’t get an entire word out, not when his mind is short-circuiting as if he’s been struck by lightning, and his nails gouge holes in the sheets when he arches up with a horribly high-pitched cry, coming so hard against Judal’s thigh that he sees stars, sunbursts, and then for long moments, nothing at all.

 

 _Oh._ That's really, really interesting, and ridiculously _cute_ , too. Judal grins, pulling back with a last, lingering suck, his fingers tiptoeing their way down Aladdin's belly. "You've _never_ come that fast," he murmurs, sliding his fingers down beneath fabric to drag through the slick, sticky mess. "I wish I was that sensitive." 

 

Aladdin stirs, grunting as he makes a face. “s’not usually like that,” he mumbles. “If I’m not already...you know, feeling good, it doesn’t feel good at all.”

 

"Just let me do it, then; I'm good at it," Judal easily replies, dragging his fingers away to lick them clean with a shuddering sigh. "Now you _have_ to change clothes." 

 

Aladdin opens his eyes to narrow slits. “I’m going to get you back for this,” he promises. “And you’re going to like it a _lot_.”

 

"Ooh, scary." Judal flicks one of Aladdin's nipples. "You'll look good, you know. Really handsome. I'll let you have my mouth afterwards, even, if you behave and don't itch the whole time."

 

No matter that he’s had Judal’s mouth every time he so much as hinted he’d like to, no matter that he’s had it twice today, Aladdin perks up at the thought. “Fine. Just make sure I don’t embarrass Alibaba.”

 

"You won't, so long as you're a little bit tolerant. Geez, of all the things I expected you to whine about…" He pauses, amused. "Sinbad doesn't have tan lines, you know."

 

Aladdin nods, already searching out the peach Judal had abandoned. “I know.”

 

"You should go sunning with him. I won't pinch your nipples then, I promise." That's a lie.

 

“Why would I want to be naked with Sinbad when I can be naked with you?”

 

"I don't want you both doused in tanning oil and rolling _together_. I want you both doused in tanning oil and rolling with _me_." 

 

Aladdin gives him a Look. “Maybe if you behave yourself tonight. And you _don’t_ pinch my nipples again.” He pauses. “And you let me have your mouth again later.”

 

"Lots of stipulations," Judal complains, and pulls away to better start rummaging though the pile of clothes Aladdin had brought with him. "Fine, fine. You can always have my mouth, though." _I'll still pinch your nipples when you least expect it._

 

 

Dressing Aladdin, apparently, is truly a remarkable feat. The man _acts_ like he's allergic to half the things Judal manages to force him into, for all his squirming and whining and complaining. Judal eventually tunes it out, no matter how he wants to smack Aladdin; he doesn't have the _patience_ for this, especially when it's such a simple, pointless thing. 

 

_You really would have died in the Kou Empire._

 

"All right, all right, come on--don't slouch, don't try to _hide_ in all of it, geez, don't make me sound like _Ja'far_ \--" 

 

Of course, in the act of dragging Aladdin down the hallway to the throne room, Judal nearly misses the toddler… well… _toddling_ his way down and promptly into his leg. "Uh," he begins. _This is definitely not my area of expertise. God, I hate kids._

 

Then again, this one has really, really red hair, and eyes blue enough that they sort of hurt to look at. Hmm. 

 

The child sits as heavily as it can manage on Judal’s foot, blue eyes staring up at him as a wide smile splits a toothy grin, chubby arms reaching for the Magi. “Up!”

 

Judal's head cocks. A tentative poke at the kid's magoi explains it all, and he doesn't feel _so_ weird giving in with a sigh. "… Aladdin, isn't this more _your_ thing?" Judal mutters, bending to scoop him up. Ah, well. Caius--that was his name, right? god, he better remember it--has always been _tolerable_ for a baby. Looks a lot different now, though, but Judal supposes the last time he saw the brat was when he was still permanently attached to Kougyoku's boobs.

 

Wait.

 

"Kougyoku is here," he suddenly, worriedly realizes. That worry quickly turns to outright irritation. "The hell is your mother thinking?" he growls to the child in his arms. "She _better_ not want that classless excuse of a Magi."

 

“Oh Juuuuudaaaaaal,” a sing-song voice comes from around a corner, a few seconds before Kougyoku, dressed smartly for traveling in the desert with an empty pouch for a baby on her back, bounds around the corner. “There you are! I knew you had to be close by, Caius never fusses unless you’re around--oh good, you found him!” She leans up on tiptoes to give him a kiss on the cheek, seemingly quite content to leave the child in his arms. “Oh, and Aladdin too! Oh my, you look...huh.”

 

“What?” Aladdin asks nervously, plucking at the unfamiliar clothes.

 

“Oh, nothing, I just never realized what a bum you looked like before until I saw you looking like a proper Magi.”

 

Judal smirks at that, briefly forgetting his prior annoyance. "Right? He looks handsome now. _I_ cleaned him up, so he won't make his king look like even more of an idiot. Oh, right!" Judal suddenly remembers, scowling down at her. "What are you doing here anyway?! You _better_ not be after Yunan, he's a goddamn ass."

 

Kougyoku laughs, leaning against his shoulder. “It made _such_ a convenient excuse to come to Sindria, though! After all, I’m a dungeon capturer, and royalty in my own right...and if I were to use that as an excuse to check on my favorite Magi, well, no one really _expects_ me to bring him home, so they won’t be disappointed! Oh,” she says, blinking at the baby in Judal’s arms, “I can never get him to fall asleep that fast, you’ll have to tell me your secret.”

 

"… I dunno, I didn't do anything. I just picked him up and…" Judal shrugs. Best not to bring up how pregnant women or women with babies like him. Yeah. That's always awkward. "Well, I guess as long as you aren't _trying_ to get Yunan, that's fine," he mutters, shifting Caius in his arms to better lay the kid's head against his shoulder. "I hope you didn't come and expect me to be a babysitter, though. _That_ office is on the top floor of the parliamentary building, to the right, name's Ja'far."

 

“He likes _you_ , though,” Kougyoku says, and as if in answer, Caius reaches sleepily up, attempt to wrap too-short arms around Judal’s neck, and subsides into sleep again. “Besides, I have to run in and present myself to the Magi. Don’t worry, this shouldn’t take long!” she calls over her shoulder, running off.

 

"… Why," is all Judal can defeatedly manage, looking over to Aladdin. 

 

Aladdin pokes the baby’s head. “Wow, it’s so red. Hey, if you don’t want him, I can try and watch him for a few minutes. I want to see what he’ll do!”

 

"It's a Ren family thing, all of them have red hair of some sort," Judal sighs, rolling his eyes. "And all right, here, take him. If he wakes up, though, just give him back, I don't want Kougyoku pissed off at me." 

 

The second Aladdin’s hands close around the baby’s waist, shockingly blue eyes open and fill with tears. A low warning whine starts in his throat, and Aladdin lets go immediately. Caius shuts his eyes, burying his face back in Judal’s shoulder. “Um. I don’t think he likes me.”

 

"… That's a new one," Judal mutters, giving Caius's back a little rub to soothe him. "Usually kids are all over you. Maybe it's a rukh thing?" 

 

Aladdin’s face falls. “Is my rukh weird today or something? What’s it doing? It looks normal to _me_ …”

 

"No, I mean, like--maybe it's because my rukh aided in his conception or something? Or maybe he's a water mage, that'd be cool." 

 

Aladdin gives the boy a cautious mental poke. The child stirs, but just fists a hand in Judal’s shirt before falling back asleep. “Hm...I don’t know, I can _usually_ tell by this age if they’re going to be magicians or not.”

 

"Well, he's certainly got enough magoi to be a dungeon conquerer, then," Judal sniffs, giving Caius a protective little squeeze. "Maybe he'll be suited for water djinn, just like his mother. I'm good at raising those!" 

 

Aladdin hesitates, then gives up. It’s possible Judal is seeing things through water magic-colored glasses, though the child definitely has a _bit_ more magoi than average. Not as much as Sinbad, or Ja’far, or even Alibaba, but a bit more than someone without any magic whatsoever. And besides, Judal looks really adorable with a baby passed out on his shoulder. “If you say so.”

 

"I know so," Judal huffs, and dryly adds underneath his breath, "At least he's not like Kouen's brat, what a joke." 

 

“Hakuei still seems to love her, though, even if she doesn’t have any real magoi,” Aladdin points out.

 

"Well, yeah, but still… there's some irony there, mostly along the lines of Kouen being an asshole. You're gonna be a lot stronger than your uncle was, yes you are--" Things he probably shouldn't coo to a baby, oh well.

 

Aladdin sort of doubts that--as much as he’d detested Kouen, the man was a dungeon capturer, a multiple dungeon capturer, but ah, there’s no use in fighting about it with Judal, not when the future is always so uncertain. “Um, I have to go stand next to Alibaba at the ceremony. Do I still look okay?”

 

"Yeah, yeah, you look fine. Ah, dammit, they're probably still gonna want me there, too… oh well, time to feign a medical emergency, Balbadd will look even better if I'm not there," Judal dismisses, turning to walk in the other direction. "If they ask, he's colicking or something and I'm being a good healbitch and fixing the heir of a foreign nation." 

 

Aladdin reaches out, grabbing the end of Judal's braid and giving it a little tug before letting go, waving a fond goodbye before trying to look his most somber and walking into the hall. He spots Alibaba easily enough and sidles up to him, trying as hard as he can not to fuss with his clothes. "I'm wearing sleeves, are you happy?" he asks out of the corner of his mouth, watching the endless parade of nobility be corralled into something of a line to form a procession.

 

"Yes," Alibaba mutters underneath his breath, raking his gaze up and down Aladdin and trying not to sigh in relief. "You look good. _Thank you_." 

 

It's a little startling, actually, how many people are _here_ just to try and woo Yunan. _I really did get lucky_ , Alibaba sort of miserably thinks, and the urge to grab Aladdin and _hug him_ is nearly too strong to resist, no matter how in public they are. Better yet that he didn't end up with a weird Magi like Yunan, or a bitchy one like Judal--speaking of which--"Where's your _friend?_ " 

 

"Honestly, why don't we cut this short?" Yunan sounds _bored_. Very, very bored. "First task--swim a lap around the island. A king should be able to swim. And not be eaten by merely large fish. Go forth and all of that." 

 

"… Is this guy for real?" Alibaba manages. Thank god _he_ doesn't have to go swimming. Nope, nope, _nope_.

 

“He’s healing,” Aladdin murmurs. 

 

Sinbad claps a hand down on Alibaba’s shoulder. “A fine test!” he declares in a booming voice, with a nod to Yunan. “Any who would rule a nation should be able to navigate dangerous waters in every way. And those of us graced as kings should lead the way!”

 

He strips off his outer robes, tossing them to Ja’far. “Alibaba Saluja of Balbadd and I will lead the way!”

 

"Eh… _eh?!_ " Alibaba can't _help_ but squeak. "I--uh--but--"

 

"Oh, excellent, what a pity Scheherazade's Empress isn't here!" Yunan cheerfully replies, letting his head flop over the side of the throne. "Shall I make it a race, for higher placement in my favor? Of course, the two already chosen kings will _undoubtedly_ come out on top, but that's to be _expected_." 

 

" _Aladdin_ ," Alibaba hisses out between clenched teeth. "Some magic so I can _swim_ would be _great_." 

 

Aladdin blinks up at his king, head tilting to the side. “You--you don’t know how to swim?” He scratches his head, thinking fast. “Um, Judal’s really better at this kind of thing, he can take bodily functions and break them down into rukh, but bodies are _hard_ \--if you want to boil the seas I can help you do that?”

 

"You said he's off _healing_ , though--can't you just--ugh, I don't know, make me extra _floaty_ or something--"

 

“Aren’t you the king of a _port_ city?”

 

"I can swim a _little!_ But not through sea monsters!!"

 

Sinbad’s hand lands heavily on Alibaba’s shoulder as Aladdin tries to think of something, some wind magic--but how would being floaty help against sea monsters?

 

“Not to worry,” Sinbad says cheerfully, and drags Alibaba with him, followed closely by the mass of petty royals jockeying for a position in a useless race. “It’s good exercise, and if you can stay close to me, the monsters will give us a wide berth. They know better than to come too close to me!” 

 

Dropping his voice, he adds, “Of course, if you fall behind, I make no guarantees. But surely a great king who has decided to take his nation for himself has practiced eliminating his known weaknesses, hasn’t he?”

 

Alibaba strangles a squeak that's very, very undignified as he's dragged along. "U-uh… yeah. I've… definitely done that." _Someone, please kill me now._

 

“On my mark!” Sinbad roars, watching as some--certainly not all, maybe less than half the assembled crowd--hurry to strip off as much fabric as they can. _So you’ll travel to Sindria but not once around? Pitiful. No wonder Yunan is bored._

 

“Go!”

 

He hits the water, and Aladdin breathes out a spell, encasing Alibaba’s head in a protective bubble. “It’s the best I could think of!” he calls as the water fills with shrieking, swimming royalty. “Good luck!”

 

Well, it'll do.

 

Sort of.

 

Okay. At least he's in good _shape,_ Alibaba thinks to himself. He's way more athletic than _all_ of these idiots, except for Sinbad, he supposes. He's just not a strong _swimmer_ , and why should he have to be? It's not like one goes _swimming_ in the ports or anything, that's actually sort of gross.

 

"… At least he isn't dog paddling," Judal offers from behind Aladdin in an amused drawl, Caius still held in his arms. "Guess I didn't miss much. Huh. Yunan's not even coming out to watch? I thought he'd like to see Sinbad mostly naked at least, the creep." 

 

“Given that he’s spent the last few years watching you from a continent away,” Aladdin points out, “I don’t think seeing Sinbad mostly naked is much of a challenge at all. It’s not like Sinbad is _rarely_ naked.”

 

Alibaba’s doing better than he’d expected, and that at least brings a grin to Aladdin’s face. He reaches out, patting the baby’s head. “Bring him to see his mommy win? I bet she will.”

 

"Do you wanna watch your momma kick everyone's butt? She's a fish, just like a fish," Judal coos, hefting Caius up a bit in his arms to give him a better view. "Look, look, you can be a fish just like her some day! COME ON, KOUGYOKU, BEAT THAT STUPID KING'S ASS!!"

 

Somewhere that should be out of vocal range, Kougyoku’s ears pick up. She wriggles further under the water, breath coming out in a series of bubbles as she shouts, “Dwell in my body, Vinea!”

 

When she surfaces, speeding through the water, one of the first things she sees is Sinbad, eyes flashing. A second later he dives, and a woman with long purple hair, gills and a mermaid tail pops up, darting ahead of Kougyoku.

 

“Oh, so _that’s_ how you want to play it,” she murmurs to herself, eyes alight, and streaks through the water like a flash.

 

On the shore, Aladdin finds himself hovering in the air, watching the vast crowd of struggling swimmers and far, far in front, two greenish-blue streaks of light.

 

"Hey, Alibaba's not drowning!" Judal cheerfully points out, an easy push off the ground letting him hover a bit higher, sitting cross-legged with Caius in his lap. "Heh, but _mine_ are still better--look, look, your mom's gonna _win_ , Caius! See, Aladdin, he's got all this good water affiliation in his _veins_." 

 

Aladdin tries not to make a face. Really, so many of his friends are water magicians it shouldn’t still prickle at him, but...natural instincts are what they are. “Alibaba’s ahead of everyone else!” he points out, pleased as if he’d tutored his king himself. “Not bad, the only people he’s behind have water djinns!”

 

In fact, from this angle, it’s a little hard to tell… “Are Sinbad and Kougyoku even racing? It looks like they’re _dancing_.”

 

"They're probably going to have some weird kind of fish sex, I dunno," Judal sighs, rolling his eyes. "Caius, make sure you don't watch that part, you're too young. Watch Alibaba flopping around a little bit instead. He's less a fish, more a whale thing."

 

“At least whales don’t sink!” Aladdin is focusing gleefully on the positives, and besides, no one would expect Alibaba to win against two water equips. Sinbad and Kougyoku have almost completed the course, with everyone else barely halfway. “How do fish have sex, anyway?”

 

“Hissh!” Caius announces.

 

"Yeah, that's right, fish!" A swirl of a finger, and it's easy enough make a little piece of rukh look like a fish for a second or two--and make it visible at all, besides--as it bumps into Caius's forehead. "And hmm, I dunno. Fishily? Way different than worms." 

 

Twisting around, Caius lets out a happy gurgle, snatching the rukh from the air no matter that he shouldn’t be able to do anything of the sort, using a pudgy hand to pet the little wings before letting it go. “Hish!”

 

Aladdin doesn’t notice, trying to will some magoi into Alibaba from this distance, maybe give him a bit of an energy boost. “I hope neither of them lay eggs.”

 

Judal squints, momentarily and _thoroughly_ distracted by a kid apparently _touching_ his rukh. No. No, he's definitely insane and imagining that. "Uh… yeah, that would be weird," he mutters, eyeing Caius one last time before, shrugging it off, giving the child a little bounce in his arms. "Especially Sinbad, that's the deepest, darkest depth of creepy." 

 

“I could probably think of some creepier things, but it would be kind of difficult. Hey, have you and Sinbad ever done it when he’s a lady? He’s a _pretty_ lady,” Aladdin says, a little wistfully.

 

"Damn right he is--don't touch, though, I haven't had him when he's in _that_ form yet," Judal sniffs. "I _did_ put it in him when he was still like normal the other night, though. _That_ was fun. I got to pull his slutty ponytail." 

 

Aladdin’s ears perk up at that, and he can’t say the idea isn’t intriguing. “Really? I bet he really liked that. Hey, do you think Kougyoku will want to stay a while? And maybe play around once or twice?”

 

"I think she's planning on it. I'm putting it in her first, though, I've been waiting for _years!"_ Judal groans, floating up a few more inches to get a better view. "Aww, c'mon, Kougyoku, don't give up now! If she doesn't win, she's gonna probably _pout_." 

 

“Mama hish,” Caius insists, tugging on Judal’s shirt.

 

“She’s gonna make it,” Aladdin says, pointing at the impromptu finish line, and the darting green and blue specks. “She’s--she made it!”

 

Kougyoku flares her fins, coming to an easy stop, chest heaving and eyes sparkling with excitement. “We should do that again!”

 

Sinbad can’t help but grin down at her, the djinn equip fading away. “I can’t wait for next time already.”

 

"Heeey, congratulate your momma already, you little ankle biter," Judal cheerfully tells Caius as a push of gravity magic makes quick work of the distance to the finish line. "Hey, stupid king! You're getting slow in your old age, aren't you?" he teases, encouraging Caius to wave down at his mother. "Should I start arranging these kinds of tests or something to keep you in shape? Ah, but at least you aren't Alibaba." 

 

“There’s no shame,” Sinbad says, bowing over Kougyoku’s hand and kissing it, “in losing to a worthy champion. Ah, is that your child?”

 

Kougyoku’s face burns, and she distracts herself by staring up at Judal. “Bring him down here, I want him to meet the king of Sindria!”

 

Judal just _smirks_ at her, knowing very well the tone of that voice and having to bite his tongue to keep from teasing her about her crush that has done everything _but_ fade away in years past. "He's gonna be really strong," he offers instead as he floats down until his bare feet touch sand. "Mmn, I think he wants to call you a fish now, though, Kougyoku. My bad." 

 

“There are worse things he could call me,” Kougyoku says with a shrug, lifting the child out of Judal’s hands. “Ah, there you go, did you see Mama race?”

 

“Mama hish!”

 

Kougyoku laughs, and pretends to bite off his nose, making the boy giggle and squeal. “My apologies. Sinbad, your Majesty, this is my son Caius Alexius. Best behavior,” she tells the boy.

 

Caius giggles, and Sinbad shakes his hand gravely. “A pleasure. I see you’ve already made yourself at home on my Magi.”

 

At the word, or for an unrelated reason, Caius squirms around, holding chubby arms out to Judal. “Ju! Ju!”

 

"Yeah, yeah, give the little worm back," Judal defeatedly sighs, holding out his arms to take him from her. "I swear he likes my rukh. Aladdin doesn't believe me, but he's gonna have a lot of power to throw around one of these days." 

 

Kougyoku blows a raspberry on the boy’s stomach, then hands him back over. “I’m not surprised he likes you, but do you really think he’ll be that strong? Lady Scheherazade didn’t seem very...impressed.”

 

“Nonsense,” Sinbad declares, laying a hand on her shoulder. “With such a mother? I’ll be lucky if he doesn’t conquer everything in sight.”

 

 _Damn it, I was supposed to be able to look at him without wanting to faint,_ Kougyoku tells herself sternly.

 

Judal half wants to tell Sinbad to tone it down, lest her knees give out at any moment, but it's too fun watching Kougyoku nearly swoon. "Yeah, he'll be strong. Don't listen to Scheherazade, she's dumb," he murmurs, a little flutter of his rukh sliding around the child. _Well, you feel weird to me, if nothing else, so I know I can't be completely wrong_. "Oh--look, there's Alibaba! Congrats, Alibaba, you didn't die."

 

A heaving, ragged breath, and the man in question hauls himself ashore, trying to no avail not to flop gracelessly onto the sand and hack up his lungs. 

 

"Spoke too soon," Judal offers with a shrug, and gently nudges his nose against Caius's cheek. "How not to be a fish," he very sternly says. 

 

Aladdin runs to Alibaba’s side, getting under an arm and helping him to his feet. “You did really great, Alibaba!” he says, brushing the hair back from Alibaba’s face. “Look, you came out ahead of everyone that doesn’t have a water djinn! That’s great!”

 

"Kill me," is the man's request as he flops with a groan into Aladdin's arms.

 

"… If you keep winning Yunan's little games, he might actually look at you," Judal says as he eyeballs Kougyoku. "I'm stealing your kid if he does that. I mean, not that I want him or anything. Just--for safety reasons. Yunan's a creep." 

 

Kougyoku laughs, even as her cheeks flush. “He’s not going to choose me, don’t be ridiculous. I’ve only captured one dungeon, that’s hardly good enough for the likes of him.” Nonetheless, she shifts a little closer, murmuring, “We’d have to figure something out about how to get him to you instead of Titus. I love him, but he’s not really much of a _father_. Not on a daily basis, at least.”

 

Judal's eyes widen at that, and he quickly shakes his head. "Oh, no. Don't even _imply_ \--I am _not_ a father, go woo Sinbad or something for that if you want to break up your marriage," he lowly mutters. "Your kid just likes me, but I bet he likes Titus more."

 

Kougyoku’s face falls, and she reaches forward, plucking the baby from Judal’s arms. “Fine, I’ll go find his father, then. No, no, shh,” she says, rocking Caius as he starts to cry, “Judal doesn’t want to play with you anymore, you’re too much work. Come on, let’s find Papa.”

 

"Hey, I didn't say _that!"_ Judal protests, reaching out a hand to grab her arm. "C'mooon Kougyoku, don't be so bitchy. You _know_ what I meant, I'm not exactly father material, anyway--uh--look, can we take this conversation somewhere more private?" Sinbad is going to tease him mercilessly later, he _knows it_.

 

“I don’t know,” Sinbad says, suddenly looming behind and draping an arm around Kougyoku’s shoulder, the other over Judal’s. “I think you’d be an excellent father. I think I’ve promised you fantastic rewards for such a thing, even.”

 

 _I'm going to bite your arm off._ "That's--a lot different," Judal protests, giving Sinbad's arm a shove. " _Siring_ a kid and playing babysitter are two different things, and do you _really_ want Yunan up my ass about the first thing when he seems put out by _Scheherazade_ making babies?" 

 

“Heavens forfend.” Sinbad sighs, releasing the two of them no matter how Kougyoku’s face falls. “But you really should take the child for now,” he says, placing the boy back in Judal’s hands, drawing a happy gurgle out of the child’s mouth. “His mother has to go be honored by the most powerful man alive.”

 

"Yeah." Judal sucks in a calming breath before turning to Kougyoku once more. "Just remember who raised that dungeon for you, don't let him be all unwashed-creepy-charming at you!" he firmly tells her. "I've _always_ known you were really strong, even after that time you nearly drowned in a tub of peaches. We'll meet up later and talk or something, don't make that damned pouty face." 

 

She leans up on tiptoes to kiss his cheek. “I promise.” 

 

Then Sinbad grabs her hand, dragging her off to the hall, and she calls back, “Come see me later! Bring Aladdin!”

 

Sinbad doubts the other nobles have even emerged from the ocean yet by the time he gets Kougyoku back to the throne and she bows before Yunan. “Wisest of the Wise,” he says with his own bow, “the winner of your test.”

 

Yunan reminds himself to look awake, never mind that he yawns and stretches as he peers down at Kougyoku. "Oh. The Ren girl--she beat even you, did she?" he teases as he turns onto his side. "Rise then, Ren Kougyoku; you're… ah, right, exempt from whatever challenge I decide on next, which I haven't yet, but I'm sure it will be terribly amusing and you will enjoy laughing from the sidelines because basically everyone else is a bloody fool." 

 

“She is a fearsome foe,” Sinbad agrees. “I’ll have to stop underestimating her. The world would do well to follow such an example.”

 

Kougyoku’s cheeks color at the praise. “Great and powerful Magi, I thank you for your consideration, but…” She bites her lip, then admits, “I don’t really want to be the king of all the world. I just don’t get much opportunity to leave Laem. Please forgive the deception, I meant no ill.”

 

"Oh, all the better. It will be even more hilarious when you undoubtedly make a laughingstock of every other 'king candidate' that attempts to roll themselves to my feet," Yunan brightly replies. He leans forward a bit from his nest on the throne, tone lowering conspiratorially--"And forgive me, but I have no real intention of choosing a king. I certainly didn't _ask_ for all of these idiots to show up."

 

Kougyoku’s head tilts. “Did you not send the missive, my lord? We all received one--every noble, every royal, dowager or dynasty, every dungeon capturer.” She reaches into her sleeves, realizes she’s still stripped from the race, and drops her hands to her sides. “It’s in my clothes--it looked _quite_ magical.”

 

Yunan's gaze immediately goes to Sinbad. "And you had _nothing_ to do with this." 

 

Ah, no. He wouldn't have, would he? Yunan heaves a long, tired sigh as he flops back into his spot on the throne. "If you would, find it later so I can see it?" _'Fighting for my hand' isn't the kind of contest I thought you were talking about, so can we just not?_

 

Sinbad blinks, for the first time in a while genuinely startled. “I? I do make it a policy not to besiege my guests and drain Sindria’s resources catering to extravagant nobles. This was none of my doing.” 

 

Kougyoku calls, “Just a moment, my lord!” and runs from the hall, finding her clothing and pulling free the little scrap of paper, emblazoned with flowing gold script in her native language, rushing back to present it to Yunan. “If we are imposing, I can leave--”

 

“You are welcome in Sindria regardless of contest,” Sinbad interrupts. “The others, I feel no compunction about banishing if that is your whim.”

 

"Stay, stay, you're cute," Yunan distractedly mutters to Kougyoku with a wave of his hand as he takes the letter, frowning as he turns it around in his hand. Ah, he has a headache now. _Is this some sort of punishment for living in a hole for as long as I have?_ "… And no, don't banish the others. I suppose I'm obligated to keep playing with them or something." 

 

A slight hint of warmth from Yunan’s fingers is all it takes to ignite the dormant magic in the paper, a soft thrum of light turning the ink to liquid, and it runs in rivulets down the page, forming into a tongue not spoken for hundreds of years, remembered by few, taught as a curiosity.

 

_Trust in me._

 

 _Making me entertain a herd of unworthy fools is hardly endearing you to me right now_ , Yunan thinks, even as his lips twitch into a slow smile all the same. "Do you mind if I keep this?" he mildly inquires of Kougyoku.  

 

“Not at all!” Kougyoku gives him another bow, then says, “Do you need anything else of me today? When will the next trial commence?” Her eyes already twitch toward the door, remembering Judal’s promise.

 

"Ah… mmn, not today, I need to think of something thoroughly obnoxious." Yunan already begins turning to coil himself into a little ball around the missive in question. "Go on, then, I'm old and pathetic and tired." 

 

The missive in his hand pulses, as warm as his blood, in time with his heartbeat.

 

Kougyoku spots Judal and leaps on him from behind, promptly chewing on his ear. “I’m bored and I’m a champion and I want you, can we go to bed?”

 

It's a _good thing_ that he'd already handed Caius off to Ja'far. At least the kid didn't cry about it, and actually seemed pretty happy a few seconds in. "How long's it been since _you_ rolled around?" Judal wryly replies, craning his neck to spare a last glance in the throne room. At least Yunan doesn't seem to want to strike him down for entertaining the idea of having sex with his 'champion.' 

 

“ _Ages_.” Kougyoku grabs his hand, yanking him down the halls to her guest room, then simply jumps onto his back again. “Three turns to the left!” 

 

He feels good under her arms, warm and sweet and softer than she remembers, though still with as much strength as ever, and that eager, excited smile she remembers so well from childhood. She tightens her arms, and when he’s in them, the loneliness doesn’t seem so bad. “You’ll take care of me, won’t you, Judal?”

 

"That better not be doubt I'm hearing--you know," Judal adds, nudging the door open with his hip and kicking it shut before he promptly dumps her on the bed. "You got heavier. Pretty sure it's all in your boobs," he teases as he follows after her, sliding his way up between her legs, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the side of her neck. "Do you want me to call Aladdin, or do I get you all to myself for once?" 

 

“Can I have you to myself? Just for a little? You can bring him later, but…” Kougyoku’s hand trembles as she fists it in his hair, dragging him down for a kiss, and she says hesitantly, “You know my...you know I had a baby.”

 

"I _want_ you all to myself, trust me," Judal mutters, his own fingers dragging up through her hair, lips parting to better nip lightly at her lower lip. "And yeah, you did. I think it made you prettier." Grinning, he slides his hands down, thumbs stroking beneath the curves of her breasts, down the softness of her sides before gently pressing into her hips. "Can't say that about a lot of women. All the eyes that were on you when you took your clothes off to swim…" He wriggles up between her legs, giving her waist a squeeze as he pulls her closer. "Not worthy, but I can't say I blame them." 

 

Just like that, with such a small touch, all the nerves about the faded marks on her belly, the extra weight, all the things that aren’t quite as _neat_ as they’d once been disappear. She wraps her legs around Judal’s waist, yanking hard at the clothes he still wears to show all that smooth tan skin, nails digging into the back of his neck as she arches off the bed already. “I’m not the only one who got _softer_ ,” she teases, pinching his sides, then his ass. “You’re so... _ripe_ , it’s comfortable!”

 

Judal's nose scrunches up, and he promptly bites at her shoulder, up her neck to suck on the arc of her throat as he shrugs off his clothes in one easy, sinuous wriggle. " _Ripe_ \--that's a new one," he breathes, sighing as he buries his face into her neck, his hands sliding around the arch of her lower back, smoothing down her spine and drawing her closer to him as he settles between her spread thighs, the already hard line of his cock rubbing lazily along the inside of one soft, warm thigh. "Wish I had been around more when you were pregnant," Judal admits, and a hand steals around, tongue flicking out over his thumb before it sneaks down between her legs to slide slick and teasing over her clit.  "I bet you were _cute_." 

 

Kougyoku gasps, legs spreading wider as she presses down, eyes sliding shut, biting her lower lip as she wriggles under his hand. She’s wet already, can feel herself sliding against Judal’s thumb, and it sends shocks through her body, drawing soft cries from her lips. “Hnn--maybe you should--see it next time,” she breathes, her eyes dark in an invitation she doesn’t regret, sliding a hand down his abdomen to palm his cock. “Please, I need you to--”

 

That's not even fair. No matter how he's thought about it and _wanted_ to have her like this for a _long_ while now, there's still an edge of hesitation, because damn it--it's _Kougyoku_ , not some girl Sinbad randomly sits in his lap because he likes to watch. It _matters_ if anything happens, and Judal is pretty sure his mind is a little too hazy to think about any sort of magical precaution…

 

Ugh. He'll figure it out later. "Need me to what?" It's a low, heated tease, and Judal nips at the crook of her neck, his hand sliding down to wrap around his own cock, guiding the head of it to drag down the slick, wet warmth of her, to rub against her hole, already clenching and eager as she squirms. "Need me to fuck you like you've been wanting to be fucked for awhile now?" he breathes, and he bites his lip, breath escaping hot and fast through his nose as he presses the head inside, groaning at that hot, hot slickness wrapping around him. Judal's hands slide to her thighs, spreading her legs wider, digging and kneading into soft flesh as he sinks into her, breath hitching hard at the sight of her splayed out, spread open beneath him. "God, _look_ at you." 

 

Kougyoku’s breath escapes in a long, drawn-out whine as Judal slides inside her, hands clenching and unclenching against his back, wriggling mindlessly under his touch. She hasn’t felt _full_ like this in ages, and never so deliciously, slick and sweet and hard where she’s used to feeling empty, too full and solid as she clenches down. “You’re--ahhhh, _Judal_ \--” she groans, mindless and aware of nothing but Judal moving _inside_ her, touching her as she’s rarely been touched, his mouth and his hands brushing away every old worry, every old thought that she was unwanted, not good enough, so much trash that didn’t deserve all the people who ignored her. 

 

None of that matters when Judal is inside her.

 

Judal's hands immediately, _eagerly_ drag upward, running up her sides, kneading into her breasts as his thumbs slide over her nipples, needing to touch and grab all that he can when she just feels so _good_ beneath him, soft and warm and _god_ , the way she squeezes around him--"You're not fair," he gasps out, sucking roughly on the side of her throat as his knees scoot up closer, making it easier to thrust _deep_ when he slowly rocks in and out, the slick, heated slide of her around him enough to make his eyes flutter. "How the hell… anyone keeps their hands off of you… _fuck_ , they're missing out," he breathlessly laughs.

 

 _You’re the only one who’s ever thought so_. It doesn’t matter, because Judal’s inside her now, and Kougyoku clings to him, nails raking down his back as she shudders, waves of pleasure racking her body as she twists and squirms on his cock. Every moment he moves inside her, all she can think about is _more_ , eyes rolling back into her head as her ankles cross behind his ass, pulling him in deeper, deeper, helpless little noises falling from her lips. “M-more, I only want you, no one touches me like you--”

 

The thought that he’s _inside_ her, of what could _happen_ , and ah, she shouldn’t want it but she _does_ , is the final straw, and Kougyoku’s legs tremble as she clenches down hard, sighing Judal’s name in a last, desperate buck of her hips, collapsing shivering, still wanting no matter how she shakes.

 

What's left of the breath in his lungs leaves him in a rush, leaving him gasping as she shivers and squeezes around him, arches up against him like some needy, desperate thing, and there's no _helping_ the bite of his nails into her sides and hips as he pulls her down, as his teeth nip and nibble into her flesh, littering bite marks down her neck and shoulders and chest. _Damn right no one touches you like me_ is the irrational, protective, _possessive_ little thought that jerks through his mind, and Judal growls as he yanks her close, shoves in deep, and that's all it _takes_ before he spills deep inside of her, panting raggedly as his vision blurs with every shiver that rakes down his spine, every pulse of his cock inside the impossible _heat_ of her body. 

 

It takes a long moment before he comes back to his senses, and Judal groans, face burying into the side of her neck as he flops against her. "… Sorry." For the bruises or scratches or bites or coming inside her, which should he pick to apologize for more? _Wow, that was dumb, even for you._  

 

Kougyoku huffs out a breath, stretching out as she wiggles into a more comfortable position, reveling in the _closeness_ of it, of the sheer naughty pleasure of lying naked with a man who isn’t her husband, feeling him slick and full inside her. She nuzzles her nose against his hair, smiling. “No sorry. Nothing to be sorry for. Thank you.”

 

"… You say that _now_ …" Judal grumbles, even as he turns his head to gently bite at her shoulder as he rolls to the side, dragging her with him with an arm slung about her waist. Whatever. Not thinking about possibilities, that never bodes well. "Your _husband_ is insane, though. I'd roll around with you every day if you were here. Aladdin, too. And probably Sinbad, you got him _going_ earlier, did you see his face?" 

 

Kougyoku’s eyes go wide. “Really? You think he was interested? I--I mean, of course I’m a married woman now,” she says with all the gravity of a married woman currently lying naked in bed with another man. “And Titus isn’t insane, he just doesn’t like women. He’s a nice boy, and at least he’s not a drunk or an abuser or a gambler. But do you really, really think Sinbad was looking?”

 

"Ooh, not a _married_ woman. Because Sinbad has never had his hands on _those_ before," Judal teases, giving her hip a little pinch. "But yeah, he was _definitely_ looking. Kinda hard not to, I _told you_ that you got really pretty. You know, for an old woman." 

 

Kougyoku squeaks, leaning over to bite Judal’s ear. “You’re just out to bring shame to my family, aren’t you? Though I don’t know how,” she says with a grin, sitting up and straddling his hips. “You make me feel _shameless_.”

 

Judal blinks up at her, the picture of innocence. "I have no idea what you're talking about," he says, splaying his hands around her hips to lightly squeeze, unable to stop from smirking at the sight of darkening bruises and bite marks littered all over her skin. "I'm just saying… if I wanted to invite Sinbad in here, he'd probably come."

 

“Don’t tease me,” she mutters, hands splaying down over his chest, tweaking his nipples in revenge for earlier. “He has lots of girls prettier than me--and younger besides, probably fighting for a place in his bed.”

 

At that, Judal rolls his eyes, never mind the little hiss of breath that leaves him. "Ahh… yeah, well, you're _my_ kind of pretty, and you're not so old, and besides, which of those girls can beat him in a race around his own island, huh? That gets him off more than anything--a strong, capable girl with a little meat on her bones." He grins, pinching the inside of one of her thighs. "Seriously, later, I'll invite him." 

 

The thought makes her shiver as much as the pinch, and Kougyoku leans forward, resting her forearms on Judal’s chest. “You mean it? You really think he’d want to? Oh, and…” She bites her lip, then ploughs on ahead. “How about Aladdin? Do you always have them separately or sometimes together?”

 

"I had them together once." And even years later, the memory is _still_ enough to make him shudder, and he distracts himself by winding his fingers around a long strand of her hair. "Not sure if I recommend it. You sort of feel like a puddle of goo afterwards… for like… a week…"

 

Kougyoku’s eyes widen. “Together? That must have been…” She butts her head against his hand, fingers tracing patterns on his chest. “Just having the two of you that one time turned me into a puddle of goo, and neither of you even put it in me. I can’t imagine what that would be like. So tell me.”

 

"You were definitely a puddle after that," Judal teases, fingers sliding up through her hair to drag along her scalp. "And it was… ahh, you know how big Aladdin is? Sinbad's even more--thicker, especially, and even just him _alone_ is too much at times…" He shivers, giving her hair a little tug. "Having both inside me at once… I couldn't even breathe. They just shoved me around like a toy between the two of them, I've never felt so full, and I don't think I got up for over a day afterwards. Really good." 

 

The image alone is enough to make Kougyoku’s nipples harden, and her toes curl against the bedsheets, rocking slowly down onto Judal’s hips as she pictures the scene. It’s _easy_ to picture, Sinbad’s big muscles, Aladdin’s sweet face and sleek body, Judal writhing between them…

 

“I bet you made really nice noises,” she breathes, and rubs her thumbs over his nipples again. “Did they treat you like something precious, or like a whore?” Either way, it’s good.

 

 _Most_ girls don't want to hear about how he's usually the very eager, willing bedmate of two extremely attractive men. Then again, Kougyoku's never been most girls, and so he slowly grins, arching up beneath the drag of her fingertips with a hitching sigh. "Like a whore," Judal breathlessly answers, a hand slowly dragging down her spine, tip-toeing along each vertebrae. "And I always make nice noises when I'm being fucked… but with that much in me, when I'm stuffed _that_ full--it's hard not to just _whine_ and _beg_. They just fuck me harder when I do."  

 

Her breath hitches, and Kougyoku sucks and nibbles on Judal’s neck, rubbing slowly against him in a long arching grind. He feels good between her legs even before he’s inside her, and the slick _mess_ he’d left behind is even more sinful like this. “I wish I could fuck you like that,” she breathes, one hand sliding down to squeeze his ass. “What’s the dirtiest thing you’ve ever done with either of them? Tell me a story.”

 

The thought of Kougyoku being able to fuck him like that probably shouldn't make him as hard as it does, and Judal swallows, his hips twitching up as his breath catches with the slick slide of his cock against her. "The _dirtiest_ thing?" Damn, that's a contest, but--"Sometimes," he breathes, his hands squeezing around her hips with every wriggle of her on top of him, "Sinbad'll call me his _good girl_ , and _really_ fuck me like one of his girls. He likes grabbing and pinching me like a woman, likes shoving my face down into the bed and holding me there when he _uses me_. And he gets off even more if you call him Daddy." He smirks, grip tightening around her waist. "Try it when you have your turn with him, watch him squirm." 

 

“Oh…” Kougyoku’s hands come up to her own breasts as she leans back onto her knees, kneading and pinching and squeezing, rolling the nipples between her fingers as she squirms. “Do you think he’ll be more gentle with me because I’m a woman? Or...maybe he’ll be really _rough_ , all big and hard and just--just really _rough_ , throwing me around like he--” 

 

She breaks off, biting her lip as she rocks, mind full of Sinbad’s voice in her ear, the images Judal has planted in her head, the memory of how Judal looks when he’s got a big cock inside of him. “H-hey, put it back in, I want it again.”

 

"He'll be rough, just tell him you want it like that," Judal eagerly tells her, squirming underneath her as he urges her hips up, enough to let his cock rub and slide against her just once more before he eases it inside, a breathy, mindless groan pulling from his throat as he tugs her down, hips bucking upward. "He's got a _really_ big cock," he breathes as he lurches up, fastening his mouth to the side of her neck, batting one of her hands away to grab and knead at one breast, his fingers rolling a nipple. "You think you can take all of it?" 

 

Kougyoku lets out a breathless laugh, but it turns into a groan when Judal sinks back into her, and she raises up onto her knees, starting to ride him in earnest. “Mmm, I can take it.” She refrains from remarking that she’d shoved a baby out, Sinbad would have to be really frighteningly large to not fit. He’d probably stretch her out good, though, and it _has_ been a while. “Would you be watching him take me? Or in my mouth, so I can suck on you while he’s riding me like a cat in heat?”

 

That's a particularly strong mental image, and one that makes his hips jerk up, shoving deeper and more roughly inside of her. "Definitely in your mouth," Judal groans as his lips drag down, teeth biting gently into the curve of one breast, sucking on the spot to leave another mark. "You'd look so _good_ like that, stuffed full at both ends." 

 

She squeals at the bite, grabbing Judal’s hair and holding him there, dragging his mouth to her nipple as she rocks down harder, ass slapping down against Judal’s hips every time. “Won’t even need to tell him I want him hard,” she groans, feeling herself tightening down around him. “All he’ll have to do is look at the way you left marks all over me--he’ll know, he’ll know,” she pants, and ah, it’s so easy to imagine what Sinbad would feel like deep inside of her.

 

Judal's eyes roll back, his fingers biting into her skin, and he can't help but sink his teeth into that nipple as well, sucking on it, tugging as his hips jerk up into her, hard and fast and _relishing_ every little squirm as she writhes on top of him. His thumbs press into her hips, and he _knows_ he's leaving even more marks--where's the _help_ for it, though, when she's so wiggly and soft and perfect when's fucking herself on his cock?

 

A hard, ragged exhale, and Judal shoves up deep just a last few times before he comes again, chest heaving from the effort as he drags her down and _holds her_ there, filling her up with every slick, messy drop. 

 

Kougyoku sighs, slumping forward gratefully onto Judal’s chest, resting her cheek on his shoulder as the pleasure fizzles through her, gentler this time, a cresting wave instead of the electric shock that had picked her up and shaken her before. “I like making you come,” she murmurs against his skin. “You look so good like that, and it makes me feel pretty.”

 

" _You_ look pretty when you come," Judal mumbles, and it's with a slow roll that he flips them, pushing her down into the mattress and nuzzling up against her like a big, languid cat. "Like coming inside you, though. You're already so warm and wet, makes it even better."

 

“I like it too,” she confesses, all smiles at his caresses, one hand stealing down to rub over her belly. “Hey...would you be mad if I did get pregnant? I wouldn’t ask you to do anything.”

 

 _This_ conversation. Judal hides his grimace into her hair. "… It's not that I'd be mad," he slowly answers, "or even that I wouldn't want to _do_ anything." _Though I'm really not cut out to be a father._ "It's… Yunan already was acting weird about Titus, and he's Scheherazade's kid. And the children of Magi… most don't live very long, if they're ever born at all. I don't think you want to deal with all that." 

 

“I’m not asking you to make it happen or anything,” she murmurs, stroking a hand down through his hair. “Whatever happens, I’ll deal with it. Just so long as you’re not mad.”

 

"I'm not gonna be mad, geez." Judal sighs, butting his head against her hand. "Your kid is the only kid I like. He's cute. And doesn't chew on my hair." 

 

“Mmm, he likes you. He is a good kid, though. He doesn’t fuss much, and always eats regular, and--” She cuts off, flushing. “Sorry. That mother thing, where you talk about the baby too much, I always loathed that.”

 

"… You really don't have that vice, trust me," he drawls, giving her shoulder a soft little nip with his teeth. "And it's fine, besides. I told you I liked him." Judal hesitates before adding, "Earlier, what you said about him staying with me or something instead of Titus… not sure if that's a good idea." 

 

“It was a joke,” she assures him, unconcerned, and stretches out her arms. Judal never had been the best at telling when she was joking, or when anyone was for that matter. “Don’t worry, Titus really is a more than adequate father, and Caius is the darling of Laem.”

 

"Oh. Good. Because I'd suck at that job," Judal mutters, burying his face into her neck. He's not a little disappointed. No, not at all. It's just still weird to remember what the kid had done with his rukh earlier, though he's still pretty sure he was seeing things… "Titus better be a good father. I _told him_ to take care of you, you seem pretty neglected." 

 

“He’s well enough,” Kougyoku says, nestling into Judal’s side. “They aren’t big on fatherhood in Laem, seem to think it’s a soft woman’s concept. But Caius likes him fine, and he makes little magic shows and things for the two of us. He made Caius a toy top that never falls over, and a sucker that changes flavor every few minutes, Caius loves them.”

 

"… Just come and stay here already. You know. For a lot longer than just a visit." He's probably supposed to be comforted by Kougyoku's words, but he's just annoyed instead. "Doesn't it make you mad? You're really strong, and they don't even care."

 

Kougyoku goes still, breathing evenly against his skin for a long moment. “What do you want, Judal?” she asks quietly, all the easy mirth she’s been forcing into her voice gone now. “This is the country that killed _all_ of my brothers. My parents are dead, my country is annexed, Laem doesn’t even have a reason to keep me--Scheherazade tried to get Titus to give me up and take a more important wife after Kou fell, but he wouldn’t. My family--they didn’t think much of me, they all just thought I was the silly one who didn’t have a head for war, but I’m the only one of them who’s still alive and free. A lot of things make me mad, Judal.”

 

"I just--" 

 

His blood boils, briefly, at the thought of Scheherazade being her usual disgusting, _bitchy_ self, and there's an urge to get up and go to Laem and make it very, _very_ clear how _important_ Kougyoku should be. "Even if Sindria was always Kou's enemy, we'd still have you here," Judal eventually manages. "Look, Kougyoku--aren't you lonely? Don't you hate it? I… before, in Kou… when Kouen threw me out, if I could have taken you with me, _I would have._ I thought about you a lot, because weren't you always as bored and lonely as I was? I thought you hated me, though, just like the rest of them--and so when I saw you in Laem…" A sigh, and Judal lets his head flop backwards. "Now, when I _can_ steal you away, there's all these things supposedly stopping me _still_ … but _Titus_ ran away and is hiding here, why can't you?" 

 

Kougyoku gives him a gentle nudge with her knee. “Don’t be dumb, I always liked you. I didn’t even hear about you losing your powers until you were already gone, don’t forget that Kouen had me in bridal seclusion. What would you have me do in Sindria, hmm?” 

 

She props herself up on one arm, trailing the other hand down over his abs. “Become another borrowed relic? A pet to play with? I’m nothing here. In Laem the First Magician’s wife is an icon, but here? And with my husband quite happy to pretend I don’t exist--no, I’m not angry with him, god knows he needs a break from his hellbitch of a mother, but…” She shrugs. “What future is there for Caius here? I don’t have any family other than Titus and Caius. Don’t...don’t you realize how easy it would be for them to throw me away?”

 

" _You_ stop being dumb, as if I'd let anyone throw you away." Judal frowns, giving her belly a prod. "You're at least as strong as any of Sinbad's generals, if not stronger. You're a dungeon conquerer. So stay here as estranged royalty from Kou--not as some little whiny magician's _wife_ , sorry, that title is _stupid_ \--and offer to work for him. You were one of _my_ king candidates, I'll vouch for you, as if he doesn't already know your strength. You keep _doing this thing_ , letting everyone tell you how strong you are when they're never right. They can't throw you away when you can dump a goddamn tidal wave on their heads, don't you get it? And if Scheherazade tries to join in and try, then _I'll_ dump a tidal wave on her head." 

 

“I can’t.” Kougyoku swallows hard, blinking back the tears that try to burn her eyes. “I--I wanted to try visiting, and it’s working, but...I can’t stay here. Not when I’ll never know--someone in this country murdered my family. I don’t know who, or why, or how, but--I’ll never know if that’s who I’m having dinner with, or talking to, or--if I have to be a captured princess in a foreign land that’s one thing, but I won’t--I won’t _give_ myself to a place that….” She rubs at her eyes, curling against his side. “I know they weren’t perfect. But I don’t think I’m really any different.”

 

_Ugh._

 

There's a very, very large part of him that just wants to shut up, to leave it at that and pet her hair and comfort her and never bring it up again. Judal sighs into the top of her head, his eyes lidding as guilt twists low in his stomach. _Shouldn't feel guilty about this. I shouldn't._ "You never _hurt_ anyone, though. I mean… you know I liked all of your brothers, right? But some of the things they did in war… didn't you hear about it?" 

 

“I know.” Kougyoku’s voice is very small, and she curls up into a ball, face buried in Judal’s shoulder. “They were still my family. My _only_ family. J-just because they did bad things...En still taught me how to use a sword, and Mei told off the servants for pulling my hair and making fun of me, and Ha used to make everyone play with me even though my mother was just a prostitute…that doesn’t _change_ because they went to war. If they hadn’t married me off, I might have gone, too.”

 

"… _Al-Sarmen_ changed them, though." His own voice is tight, and it's hard, very hard, to lift his arms and drape them around her. "I'm glad they married you off, because then _they_ couldn't get to you. They got to Koumei and Kouha less, and they were still… the things they did in Balbadd. The whole country was nearly destroyed. A fourth of the population was sold as slaves. All the men they killed, the women Kouha _gave_ to the Kou soldiers-- _good_ people don't do that in wars. And En--he wasn't the _same_ , Kougyoku, he wasn't at _all_."

 

She doesn’t mean to cry--really, Kougyoku tells herself, she’s _better_ than this, _stronger_ than this. “I heard stories. I...they were awful, I didn’t want to believe them even though I knew they were probably true.”

 

She takes a slow, shaky breath. “I don’t--I don’t _blame_ the people who killed them, not really. I just don’t know if I could sit down and have tea with them, or live with them.”

 

 _I saw it. Kouha gave_ me _to his goddamn soldiers, is that the same little brat that liked braiding my hair all wrong?_

 

He's done. It _aches_ , but he's done. "How about sleep with them?" Judal dully asks. "Or offer to bear their children." 

 

Kougyoku goes still. With anyone else, she wouldn’t know what he was talking about, but with Judal, with that tone in his voice, with the way he’s been avoiding the answers she _knows_ he has…

 

A deep breath in. A deep breath out. Her heart hurts, but it keeps beating, and that’s a good sign. Is this worse, or better than it being a random stranger? Hard to tell. “Just…” She swallows, closing her eyes tightly, clutching his arm as tightly as she can. “They hurt you, right? It wasn’t just--you weren’t just following orders, right? They _did_ something? You wouldn’t just--you _liked_ them, they must have done something, right, Judal?”

 

"Yeah. They hurt me pretty bad, Kougyoku." Well, he's done it now. Two years of hiding behind Ja'far's lie that _he's_ the one that killed the brothers, and even that's been pretty well under wraps, all moot. Suddenly, he's very, very tired. "Aladdin, too. And Sinbad. Kouha… he liked hurting me the most, I think. He said I was a traitor." 

 

Slowly, a muscle at a time, Kougyoku uncurls from her ball. The easy fun playtime of earlier seems years ago, everything cold and sad, and god, she’ll do anything to bring that light back to Judal’s eyes. “I still love you,” she says softly. “When you were with Al-Sarmen, and when you left them, and when you were my friend and Kou’s enemy and now--I still love you. Is that okay?”

 

"Yeah. That's good." Better not to go into the details of it, about how he escalated everything into a full-blown war because he was _stupid_ , and if he hadn't been, they probably all still would have been alive. Judal sighs, letting his head drop forward to rest on her shoulder. "Still won't stay though, huh. Sorry. I'm really sorry." 

 

“I don’t know.” She runs a hand through the hair around his face, curling a few thick strands around one of his fingers. “I mean, you _did_ make some good points, and I can’t stand Laem. What about Caius, though? No one but you seems to think he’s going to be much of anything, magically speaking, even though he’s got pretty exciting parents if I do say so myself.”

 

"Everyone's stupid," Judal mutters, looking up through his bangs at her. "He's just… his magoi is weird. People can't tell because they aren't used to looking at magoi and everything like I am. Virtues of being a healbitch, I guess. Earlier, I swear he actually _touched_ my rukh, like a Magi would. But he's not a Magi, so… weird."

 

“He seems healthy enough,” Kougyoku says doubtfully. “I’d heard that Titus had...that Lady Scheherazade had other children who didn’t survive, but Caius always seems healthy. Do you think there’s something wrong with him? I--sorry, talking about my child again.”

 

"It's fine, I don't care. And weird doesn't mean unhealthy… just… weird," Judal lamely offers, shrugging. "I know I'm not _wrong_. Bring him to Yunan, I bet he can tell something's different, too. I'm good at sensing this kind of thing, I felt Sinbad across the damned world when I wasn't even allowed out of Al-Sarmen's _vault_." 

 

“Tomorrow,” Kougyoku decides. “He seemed to be sort of...nesting, anyway. And honestly, I’d rather spend the night here with you than with anyone else, anywhere else.”

 

"Yeah, he does that. He's _really_ weird," Judal mutters, burying his face back into her neck. "Either way, it doesn't matter. If you stay here, Caius can, too. Do you know how many entirely goi brats _Sinbad_ has?"

 

“I don’t want him to just _stay_ ,” she says, thinking more of her own childhood than Caius’s. “I...I know what it’s like, to be alone. I don’t ever want him to be alone, so he’s got to have a lot of people that will take care of him. So either you promise to love him even if I die, or I’ll take him back to Laem where he’s at least important.” She tugs on Judal’s hair, asking, “So? Which will it be?”

 

"… You're being dumb, and I would know," Judal grumbles, reaching up to tug on her hair in turn. "I won't let you die, first of all, but if for some reason you _do_ , I think the little brat has already decided he likes me well enough that I'm not allowed to leave him alone. I'm not letting Scheherazade have him, she won't appreciate him. I'll keep him safe and happy and all of that here." 

 

Kougyoku’s arms loop around Judal’s neck, pulling him down. “Then,” she says quietly, “I’ll stay.”

 

 _Probably should approve all of this through Sinbad before I get too happy, but oh well_. "Good," he breathes, relief on a dozen levels coursing through him. "Really good."

 


	8. Chapter 8

 

 

 

This is an important day.

 

His mother had said so, carefully buckling his armor into place nearly a month ago, straightening his helmet with a proud, slightly worried look on her face. “You look so handsome,” she’d said, straightening up to look him over. “You’re almost as tall as me now, nearly grown.”

 

“I’ll get bigger.”

 

“Of course you will.” The pride had faded for a moment, and Solomon had wondered. _Who do you see, when you see me in armor? Father, who never lost a battle, God-touched, invincible? Or your first husband, who died on the front lines on Father’s orders?_

 

“Today is important, Sol.” She’d pressed her hands together, white-knuckled. “You have to show your brothers you’re fit to be king.”

 

_Maybe if I do, she won’t think of them as competition. Maybe if I do, she won’t make sure_ they _get sent to the front lines._

 

He’d kept his voice from squeaking and breaking, somehow, when he’d given the orders to his troops, and couldn’t help but feel a surge of pride at the way they marched on his command, their helms gleaming. He hadn’t looked back to see his mother wave.

 

After a month of marching, of more stress than he had ever imagined, of jokes about his age and his mother and the likely outcome of this campaign, the walls of the city shine in front of them, first a distant gleam, finally a spreading metropolis, behind four tall walls. Battle, then _victory_ , is close. 

 

_And people will die_ , his conscience reminds him, trouble. _Lots of people will die. The man on your left might die._

 

Solomon looks to his left. He doesn’t know the man, maybe in his twenties, a decade or so older than Solomon himself, with a patchy beard and bright blue eyes. Married? Children? Solomon doesn’t know. He imagines the man bleeding out onto the sand beneath their feet, and his stomach turns.

 

_At least I’ll have my victory_.

 

The words sound hollow, even in his head.

 

_Who am I to say who lives or dies?_

 

_The king_ , he reminds himself firmly. _I’m the king, and someone has to be._

 

The thoughts chasing each other around and around only stop when he hears a man shouting. “Highness! You’re needed at the front!”

 

Solomon makes his way through the army, a raise of his fist (as high overhead as possible, and it still doesn’t quite make it past most of the helmets) bringing the company to a halt. He runs to the front, only to find….

 

He narrows his eyes. “Get up,” he says sternly to the boy laying in the only shade available, an abandoned giant turtle’s shell. “My army is going this way. You have to move.”  
  
---  
  
 

After  a moment's pause, the boy's head pokes out a bit more, eyes shielded from the sun by the visor of his own hand. He's not exactly well-kept--the opposite, really, with his pale hair mussed and loosely braided, dirt smudging his cheeks and the tattered hems of his tunic's sleeves a good indication of what the rest of his clothing looks like. "I'm sleeping here," he says with a drawn-out yawn. "Who are you, anyway? You look awfully young to have an army."

 

Solomon folds his arms. “I’m the King,” he says, and _damn it_ , his voice cracks. He can hear his men stifling laughter behind him, and his face flames. “And you’re just a pauper, so you can sleep anywhere. If you don’t move, I’ll have them throw you to the side.”

 

A slow, languid blink of a pair of rather large, blue eyes, and the boy flops his head back down, making to slowly scoot back underneath his turtle shell. "You're not a very good king, then. I like this spot, so I'm staying."

 

It shouldn’t _matter_.

 

But this kid sounds like he knows what he’s talking about, and that taps in to that fear, the idea that maybe he _isn’t_ a good king, won’t be a good king, and Solomon reaches down and grabs the boy by the shoulder. “You’re wrong,” he says, eyes serious. “I’m going to be a good king. A great king.” He straightens up, scowling, and orders, “Split ranks! Part company, go around him!”

 

A few sergeants-at-arms laugh at him, and his face burns, but he stands proudly anyway as they obey his orders.

 

The boy's face twists a little in irritation. "I _like_ this city, you know," he murmurs, swatting away Solomon's hand as he hauls himself out of his turtle's shell to plop down onto it instead, the messy length of his braid trailing behind him. "I don't want you bothering them." 

 

It probably isn't a coincidence that at about that time, Solomon's soldiers seem to run face first into what _seems_ to be an invisible wall.

 

Solomon turns, hand falling to the hilt of his sword, his eyebrows snapping together. “Did you do this?” he demands, approaching the boy. “Are you a sorcerer? Haisheb, bring me my sorcerer!”

 

"Mmm. They're probably not good enough to do anything about it," is the boy's mild retort. 

 

Of course, the sorcerer is brought forth nonetheless, and comes away with a furrowed brow, shaking his head. "Your Highness, this is unlike any sorcery I've seen before. I highly doubt that this _boy_ \--"

 

"I have a _name_ , and it's Yunan," the boy in question interrupts, prickling slightly. "Do you all make such unhappy faces all the time? Ahh, forget it, I'm hungry," he bemoans, flopping down on top his turtle shell in short order. "Just go away."

 

Solomon wants to tear his hair out. He wants to throw his helmet on the ground and stamp his foot, but that’s not being a good and proper king like his mother wants him to be. He tries to breathe, tries to be calm, and says, “If I give you food, will you take down your magic, wizard? I would offer to buy your services, but I don’t think--”

 

“The boy-king is too soft!” a voice jeers, and Solomon recognizes it with a sinking feeling as one of his older cousins. “Step aside, I’ll have his head for you.”

 

“Sheathe your sword or I’ll sheathe it in your belly!” Solomon snaps, and at least this time, his voice doesn’t break. “No one, _no one_ is to lay a hand on him!” He looks down at the ragged boy, thinking. “Why do you like this city so much?”

 

Yunan's head tilts, thinking. "Well, I ran away," he matter-of-factly says. "And came here first, and they were kind to me. Unlike you," he sniffs, _terribly_ unimpressed by the offer of being _bought_. "They don't deserve to have an army tramping through here. Go bother someone else. Or better yet," he adds, eyes lidded as he finally _looks_ at Solomon for the first time, "stop _conquering_ just for the sake of conquering. No one respects a king like that." 

 

There’s no reason this boy’s words should matter to him. 

 

Save that the words he speaks are the ones in Solomon’s own heart, that is.

 

Slowly, his hand falls from the hilt of his sword.

 

“There is a traitor within that city,” he says quietly. “A kinslayer, and a coward. If he came out to me, I would never bother the city again.”

 

A murmur starts behind him, grumblings about the spoils of war gone un-sought, and Solomon ignores them.

 

"You were going to ransack an entire city for one man?" Yunan mildly inquires, propping his chin into one hand. "How do you know he's even still here?" 

 

“The sorcerer scried him there.” When the boy-- _Yunan_ \--says it that way, it _does_ sound bloodthirsty and cruel for no reason. “We’ve sent word to him, but he won’t come out. Mother--I mean, the Queen Mother says--has _decreed_ that he must die.” His face burns so hot it _hurts_.

 

"Your sorcerer isn't very good," Yunan points out, slowly inching off the turtle shell as his stomach rumbles. "Maybe he isn't here at all. It sounds like to me that your mother just sent you here to start a war." 

 

Solomon looks at the boy, frowning. Then, slowly, he reaches a hand into his pack and pulls out a ration of waybread and dried meat, holding it out. “This is all I have, but you’re welcome to it. I...I can’t look weak, not now.” He doesn’t say aloud that any sign of weakness and he’ll be usurped, slaughtered like a fat calf, his blood and his mother’s and his brothers’ staining the marble tiles of the palace. If this Yunan knows anything about his country, or is as intuitive as he seems, he’ll understand. “But I have no wish to begin a pointless siege either.”

 

Yunan frowns a little at that, his head cocking as he considers. "Keep your rations, I'm just being lazy," he dismisses, flopping off the shell in its entirety and landing on his back rather uncaringly. "Okay. You can go in and look for him. No one else, though. Make your army make camp. I won't let anyone out of the city either until you return, so you'll be able to find him if he's there." 

 

Solomon nods. It sounds like a good compromise, one that he honestly wishes he’d have thought of himself. He looks back at his men, and orders, “Make camp here. I’ll return once I’ve brought the traitor to justice.” 

 

He takes off his helmet, setting it on the ground as a token of good faith, and on a spur of the moment impulse, extends his hand. “Come with me.”

 

Yunan's eyes slide from Solomon's face to his hand, then back again, his eyebrows arching slightly. "You're certain," he says, "that you want a _pauper's_ company?"

 

Solomon feels the flush creep over his cheeks, but he blames that on the sun. “Are you sure you want the company of a King? That seems more offensive to you than being a pauper is to me.”

 

"All of the kings I've met aren't very good at being kings." Another, contemplative pause, and Yunan reaches up to take Solomon's hand nonetheless, letting himself be hauled to his feet. "You're too little to be a king," he adds, head tilting.

 

“You’re too little to be a sorcerer,” Solomon counters, but his hand closes fast over the other boy’s, and he nods sharply to his men before setting out for the city, the invisible wall parting in front of him. Once they’re several paces away, he confesses quietly, “I didn’t want to be king. But I didn’t want anyone else to be king either, I know the kind of people my brothers are.”

 

"Mmn. That's still not a good reason. You could have still gotten them off the throne without being king, if you wanted to," Yunan replies, following at Solomon's heels. "Being king while you don't want to be is a bad idea. You'll just listen to everyone else's plans, not your own. That's why you're here, isn't it? Also," he adds with a sniff, "I'm not a _sorcerer_. That word doesn't mean anything anyway, your 'sorcerer' can't magic his way out of a sack. What's your name, anyway?" 

 

“My name is Solomon.” It’s about the only thing he can say when all of Yunan’s words are so _barbed_ , poisonous arrows hitting every target of every bad thing he suspects about himself and making a home there. “It’s….complicated. Very complicated. I promised--my father’s dying wish was that I bring this traitor to justice.”

 

"Then just say that, and don't make it about some kingly thing. Not everything has to be about your throne." His stomach growls again, and Yunan looks longingly over his shoulder, missing his turtle shell already. "Maybe I'll take a nap while you go and find him, assuming he's even here." 

 

“You could make yourself _useful_ instead,” Solomon grumbles, shouldering his pack into place. His feet ache, and he doesn’t feel nearly up to hunting his cousin down, let alone murdering the man. No matter what his mother calls it, it’s murder, though at least this way he’ll keep the soldier with the patchy beard from dying. “What are you, if not a sorcerer?”

 

Yunan glowers at him. "I've _been_ useful. I let you in, didn't I? And I don't really know what I am, but they call me a Magi." 

 

“Magi.” Solomon rolls the word around his tongue, tasting it, and some instinct tells him it’s _important_. “And what does a Magi do? Travel around the world taking naps?”

 

"That would be ideal," Yunan sighs out wistfully. "Mostly, I try to avoid kings. It doesn't work. Just look where I am right now, after all."

 

“Not all kings are bad,” Solomon feels compelled to point out. “Most of them are trying hard to do the right thing just like anyone else is. It’s just--no one _tells_ you how to be king, they way they tell you how to be a tanner or a cooper or a tailor. Everyone says my father was a good king.”

 

Yunan shrugs at that, pushing his braid back over his shoulder. "Well, no one told me how to be a Magi, either. Anyway, I've met a lot of kings, they're not so great. Just more men doing more things and trying to _look_ good. I didn't know your father, of course, so I can't judge him." 

 

Solomon bristles a little at the idea that some odd wandering pauper like Yunan has the right to _judge_ the Great King David, but he swallows that down. If he tells the truth… “I didn’t really know him either. He and my mother….” He cuts himself off--why had he been about to tell that story, and to a total stranger? What is _wrong_ with him today? “What about your parents, your family? Are they all Magi, where you’re from?”

 

"Oh, no, not at all. I'm the only one… at least, I think I am." Yunan heaves a little sigh. "I don't remember my parents very well either, though. Maybe they were."

 

Solomon eyes him. “You don’t talk like someone uneducated. But you’re filthy, and you were sleeping on the ground. How does someone so powerful wind up like that? Were you robbed, or defeated?”

 

"No, I ran away. Though, what's wrong with sleeping on the ground?" Yunan rather incredulously huffs. "I sleep better there than anywhere else."

 

“It’s _dirty_ , and there are animals. And we’ve had all those earthquakes recently, haven’t you felt them? Mother says it’s God’s judgment for not bringing the traitor to justice yet,” Solomon mutters, kicking at a rock.

 

"Your mother's an idiot," Yunan mildly retorts. "God doesn't care about your traitor."

 

“Are you sure?” It’s a real question, no matter that he’s been taught to believe his mother’s opinions from the day of his birth. “My father walked with God.”

 

"I'm very sure. If he cared so much, I don't think he'd send a baby king. I think he'd rather see how important _you_ make it." Yunan sighs. "Which apparently is 'very', courtesy of your mother. You shouldn't listen to her so much, I think."

 

Solomon wants to say how he owes her, that she’s the only person who cares whether he lives or dies, that she _must_ know what being a king is, she’s seen his father for so long….

 

All he says, simply, is, “I have no one else to listen to.” 

 

He sighs, thrusting his hands into his pockets. “I’m young, I know. And I wasn’t trained. I….I don’t know what I’m doing. But three of my brothers want to be king, and they’ve killed each others’ households before. I know there will be more bloodshed if I don’t do _something_. I just….wish I knew what the right thing was to do, ever.”

 

"You seem to think God has a number of answers. Have you asked him?" Yunan lifts a hand, rubbing away a smudge of dirt from his nose and only succeeding in smudging more there. "Then again, if you don't _think_ it's right, it probably isn't. I don't think you wanted very much to march in here and kill everyone just for one man, did you?" 

 

“No, I didn’t,” Solomon admits. He watches Yunan for a second, wavering, then pulls out his handkerchief and water, dabbing his nose with it. “Do you think God would answer me if I asked? I thought you were only supposed to ask him for great strength or power.”

 

Yunan blinks, then allows a slow, amused smile to curl over his lips. "I think God gets bored with requests like that. A boy king asking for insight and knowledge… I think he'd be happy. I would be, if I were God."

 

Solomon shoots him a look. “Are you sure you aren’t? You’re powerful and mysterious.”

 

"A minute ago, you told me I was a dirty pauper," Yunan huffs. "I can't be God, I'm not old enough."

 

Solomon nods slowly. That sounds about right, at least. “When this is all over,” he promises, touching his forelock as he looks up at the sky, “I’ll make him a great offering, and ask him to enlighten a poor idiot child king.”

 

"Good. He'll be entertained, at least!" Yunan cheerfully replies around a yawn. "Mmn, do you really need me? I liked my shell, but I bet I could find somewhere else to take a nap out of the sun…"

 

Solomon scowls. “Fine, go sleep somewhere. You’re very dismissive when a king makes massive concessions to you. It will make people hate you.”

 

"I just don't want to get _sunburnt_ ," he grumbles, glowering at Solomon. "It's not like you need me for anything. And I don't care if people hate me. I wish they'd do it more often, actually."

 

“It’s easy not to care if people hate you when you’re a powerful Magi,” Solomon counters, folding his arms. “For a _human_ , if someone hates you, they can just stick a knife in you, or cut your mother’s throat, or burn your home down around your ears.”

 

"I'm made of the same stuff you are," Yunan argues, reaching out a hand to lightly poke Solomon's forehead. "And you've the same magic inside you as I do. More than the other kings I've seen, and you're still little. You're just dumb, and don't listen to it. You should definitely talk to God."

 

Solomon blinks. “Really?” 

 

If it’s magic, maybe he isn’t cursed, for the way he’d slammed his door and the room had collapsed. If it’s magic, maybe it isn’t the Deceiver whispering in his ear, when he thinks himself strong enough for a great work. 

 

Or maybe Yunan is one of the Deceiver’s other faces.

 

Right. He definitely needs to talk to God. Sooner, rather than later. “I’m going to find my traitor now. I can’t talk to God before that, the man betrayed my father, and God loved my father. I’ll….you just wait here and sleep, I’ll be back.” _With blood on my hands._

 

"All right." He doesn't need to be told twice, not when he's still sleepy after his nap was interrupted. "Don't kill anyone else, though," Yunan warns. "Just your traitor, that's it, or I'll throw you out whether you're finished or not."

 

Solomon nods. “You don’t need to worry. I’ll keep my word.” 

 

For a moment, he wonders what it would be like, to take a nap in the sun instead of seeking out a cousin with murder in his heart.

 

Hours later, when the sun is low on the horizon and he’s cleaned his sword, he makes his weary way back to where he’d left the boy. “Yunan?” he calls, hardly able to lift his eyes. “Did you wait?”

 

He's made a rather comfortable bed beneath someone's tossed out rug, unfazed by the occasional passer-by on the roads into the city marketplaces. Solomon's voice makes him stir, however, and Yunan cracks open an eye, slowly waking with a stretch against the ground before he flops back down. "Mmhm, I'm here. You found him, then? You look tired." Yunan rolls onto his back. "I'd offer to let you sleep here with me, but you said you don't like sleeping on the ground."

 

Solomon drops his pack, then his belt, then his sword onto the ground in a pile, lastly dropping himself onto the old ratty rug. He feels sore, aching inside, and colder than he ever has no matter how hot the desert all around them. “Just….for a minute,” he mumbles, eyes burning. There’s no way he can let his men see him like this.

 

"Do it right, at least," is Yunan's sigh, and he promptly flips the other half of the rug up and over Solomon. "It gets colder in a few hours. For a king leading an army, you're not so good at this camping out thing." 

 

“I don’t care.”

 

He can still smell the blood, no matter how many times he’d washed, still hear the choked, gurgling noises, and his stomach turns over. Without thinking, he buries his face in Yunan’s shoulder, which at least doesn’t smell anywhere near as bad as he’d half-expected.

 

Huh. Well. Most of the kings he's met haven't done _that_ (unless they think he's a girl, which he's pretty sure Solomon has that part down pat). 

 

"… Just go to sleep then." Solomon doesn't seem to mean any harm, at least. Not _really_. Yunan buries himself down into their makeshift bed, unconcerned. "You want me to cast a spell, to make sure you sleep better?"

 

Solomon’s first urge is to say he doesn’t deserve to sleep, but he cuts himself off as being too melodramatic. Instead he asks, a little hesitantly, “Will I dream?”

 

"I can make it so you don't," Yunan offers, eyes lidding. "Or at least, of nothing bad."

 

Solomon nods, a little too fast. “Please. At least….of nothing real.” He hesitates a moment, then gives up and scoots a little closer. No one will care what Yunan thinks of him, and it’s the first time in his life anyone’s ever slept by his side. “I wouldn’t mind dreaming about this.” Ah, he feels young right now, and raw, as if he’s been ripped open.

 

"… You're not like any king I've met before." Odd, really, because he's met a _lot_ of kings in such a short period of time. Certainly not one so young, though, or so strange… Yunan sighs, and idly drops a hand to the top of Solomon's head, the pulse of magic within his touch low and strong. "Okay. Sleep well, then."

 

~~

 

Asking about Solomon prompts quite a bit of information, even a decade later.

 

Perhaps less information and more legend, when it comes down to it, which leads Yunan to think he needs to see for himself. Half of the stories are about Solomon's  younger years, when much blood was shed courtesy of his hand, the other half about a good king, which makes Yunan scoff a little. The only good king, he's come to determine, is one that stays away from _him_. 

 

Odd, then, that he'd feel the need to go to one for a change--but Solomon, even as a child, wasn't like any king _he'd_ ever met.

 

The guards surrounding Solomon's palace walls are _rude_ , and Yunan forgoes dealing with them in favor of simply letting himself in, eventually finding a decent enough perch within a window that sees into Solomon's court. He's quiet enough that no one really _notices_ him yet, which is amusing. 

 

Ah. 

 

Solomon, though--Yunan can pick him out from a mile away, even more so now, courtesy of the magic that flows from every pore. 

 

Also, he's not so _little_ anymore.

 

Solomon feels the thrum of power instantly, though he holds still. Every sense tells him it’s _the same_ , it’s the exact feeling he’d felt years and years ago and even if it’s been a decade, it’s still obviously, blatantly, certainly _Yunan_. It’s difficult to calm down, to finish his audience when that power is vibrating so close after so long, when there’s so much he’s wanted to _say_ , to _show_ , but that isn’t what a good king does.

 

He settles four more disputes, two land claims, an ages-old grudge, and a case of a girl who’d been impregnated against her will, and only when the last plaintiff leaves his court with a smile through her tears does he relax back against the throne. A look to the guards at either side of him is enough. “Leave me. Go home to your children, there’s light still in the day.”

 

When he’s finally alone--except that surging, thrumming power--he says into the silence, “I know you’re here, Yunan.”

 

Yunan perks up, a smile on his face when his legs swing over the window sill and he sets proper foot into Solomon's throne room. "You remembered my name, even after making such a name for yourself?" He leans his staff against the wall. "I suppose this pauper should be _terribly_ honored, King Solomon." 

 

God above, it’s really _him_. 

 

Even if he’d felt the power, recognized it immediately, it’s something entirely different to _see_ the man--looking exactly the same, somehow, if a world cleaner. It’s enough to make him feel like that confused child again, instead of a young man near full-grown on his own throne, and his mouth is a bit dry when he says, “I couldn’t forget you. Nor a second of our meeting. And not a day has gone by when I haven’t wished to meet you again.”

 

"… Complimentary, now?" Yunan dryly retorts, idly toying with the end of his braid as he simply walks up and plops himself onto the arm of Solomon's throne. "Is that what God taught you? I've asked around for stories about you, but at the end of the day, they all sound rather odd and farfetched. For a man to accomplish so much in ten years seems bizarre to me… though you really _have_ grown up. Or you're not little anymore, at least." 

 

Ah, he hadn’t expected Yunan to get quite so _close_. He can feel the pulse of his magic this close, and that makes his own heart start beating faster, faster, breath coming quicker, and _surely_ that’s the magic. “He teaches me more every day,” he says, voice even while his chest flutters. “I asked him to put the wisdom in my heart of telling good men from bad, and the knowledge of how to deal out justice. And one thing I know is that I’ll never be able to repay you for that idea.”

 

Yunan blinks, a rather birdlike tilt of his head following. "Repay me? Oh, you don't need to do anything like that. To be honest, I'm just sort of glad you listened at all. No other king has," he says wryly. "Not even with far _simpler_ advice. I'm glad to see the stories aren't just _stories_ , too."

 

“I’ve had to look much harder to find stories of you.” Solomon turns in his throne, raising an eyebrow. It’s hard not to remember how easy it was to reach out and touch, back then. “I’ve found them, though. The wandering boy who comes and sits by the side of a king for a few days, and when he leaves the kingdom falls into ruin?”

 

A wrinkle of his nose follows _that_. "That's an awful way of putting it. It sounds like I'm to blame… more like they self-destruct trying to make me come back."

 

Solomon laughs, reaching up and taking off his crown, setting it carefully to the side as he shakes out his hair. “And here I thought you were just paving the way for me to take over their countries as well.” He’s never even done it on purpose. The chancellors, viceroys, young princes have all come to him, begging him to take control, to bring them under his net of safety from bloodthirsty invaders.

 

Yunan chokes on a laugh of his own. "You still think very highly of yourself, I see. I knew nothing of you and you nothing of me. And I told you," he adds, an amused smile on his lips again as he reaches out to pluck at a strand of Solomon's hair, "I don't like kings very much." 

 

“That’s a shame,” Solomon says, a small smile creasing his own lips. “Because I seem to like Magi very much indeed.”

 

"Every king says that." Yunan's eyebrows lift. "Should I take your opinion of me differently?"

 

Solomon feels daring, so he reaches out, tugging gently on the braid dangling over Yunan’s shoulder. “Be my guest for a few days. If you want to tear my country down at the end of it, I’ll help.”

 

Yunan's gaze flits to Solomon's hand, and ponders the fact that he doesn't _quite_ mind the man touching his hair. Rather, it's sort of nice. "I never want to tear anyone's country down," he slowly replies. "They do it themselves, without my help."

 

Solomon believes him. “Then I have nothing to worry about.” He looks around, pursing his lips. “I’m not sure if I have adequate accommodations for someone of your standing, but I’m sure I can find an old rug somewhere.”

 

Now that _really_ makes him laugh. "It's a _shame_ you're a king," Yunan teases outright, and in one easy movement, he drops himself into Solomon's lap. "I think I might like you. This is good, though. Your throne, I mean. Give me a pillow and I'll make a proper nesting place out of it. Or you can stay, you're big enough now that _you_ make a decent pillow. Not so bony." 

 

Ah. Solomon hadn’t quite been expecting this, the sudden closeness, the smell of Yunan (cleaner, but still the _same_ ), the feel of him, more aloof and mysterious and entrancing than a hundred of the dancing girls who’ve tried to dance their way onto his lap in the past. He swallows hard, trying to stay still, trying to get _all_ of himself to stay still. “Are you always so informal with kings?” he asks, voice about an octave lower than before, and not quite as stable.

 

"Yes," is the very blunt answer to follow, and Yunan twists himself around, less sprawled over Solomon's lap and more perched there over his hips, their faces a mere few inches from one another. "I seem remember _you_ passing out in _my_ bed once. Is this so different?" 

 

This is hardly fair. Solomon doesn’t know what kind of game Yunan is playing, especially when it’s abundantly clear that Yunan isn’t being visited by the same compelling urges Solomon is. Slowly, he shakes his head. “Of course not. M-my kingdom and my person are at your...disposal.” He could _kill_ himself for that little stutter.

 

"Ah, _there_ ," Yunan murmurs, his eyes lidding as he lays a hand against Solomon's chest. "Your voice sort of cracked like that when you were young. Maybe you still are a little bit the same, hmm?" 

 

Solomon makes a face, cheeks flaming, but he swallows that down as much as he can, no matter that the weight of Yunan on his lap is starting to be uncomfortable for a very different reason. “I hope I’m not so different,” he says honestly, trying to distract himself. “I--I don’t want to be the kind of person who stops caring about the blood I spill.”

 

Yunan's head tilts again. "But you cared then," he points out, and he not-so-innocently wriggles closer. "I remember that very clearly.  You were just… distracted? It's why I sought you out again, you know, to see if you were the same as that… but smarter about it, all the same." 

 

Solomon bites his lip, trying not to imagine what kind of insult it would be to rub lustfully up against a Magi, who is probably some kind of messenger from God. “If I were no smarter now than when I was a child, I’d be a very, uh, poor king, indeed.” If only his heart could stop beating so _loudly_. “Where did you go? Back then? I woke up and you were gone.”

 

It's a little odd, the fact he's even _contemplating_ this. Kings at best tend to bore him, and he's certainly never (willingly) felt inclined to share their beds. Solomon… Solomon is _different_ , and the pulse of magic when they touch is all sorts of odd but unmistakably _powerful_ , and Yunan _likes it_. 

 

"Are you saying you wanted to wake up to me?" The heat that twists in his belly makes him shiver, and Yunan's hands slide up to drape over Solomon's shoulders. "I made sure you were resting well, and then I left. You didn't need me anymore." 

 

There’s no denying what this would look like, if anyone were to walk through those doors. Yunan is straddling his lap, arms looped around his shoulders, and Solomon’s heart is beating hard enough to try and thud out of his chest. “Didn’t need you,” he admits, lips dry, and even wisdom is no proof against temptation. He lets his hands come up to Yunan’s waist, holding him gently, and tugging him closer until their faces are bare inches apart. “But I wanted you.”

 

Yunan's lips part to reply to that, but he thinks the better of it, for a moment. "Have you thought of me, since then?" he says instead, and he feels another shiver rake down his spine at the feel of Solomon's hands-- _certainly_ bigger than before, far more calloused, too, when they wrap about his waist. His head tips forward, nose brushing against the king's. "Of the power I could bring you? Or something else?" 

 

“Power,” Solomon says carefully, eyes locked on Yunan’s blue ones, “has never been my desire. Only the wisdom to use it properly.” He’s quite proud of himself for getting that sentence out all in the right order, when he can feel the warmth of Yunan’s breath on his lips. In a hushed, half-whisper, he admits, “I have thought of you often.”

 

Yunan hums, pleased in spite of himself. "Did God tell you how to answer a Magi's questions, too?" he lowly teases. "Or have you just thought long and hard about how to change my opinion about kings?" 

 

Solomon’s lips spread in a grin, and his hands tighten, just a little, just enough to feel the movement and warmth of Yunan’s muscles under his clothes. “I’m not sure even He would know how to solve a riddle like you.” He looks up, and asks, a little hesitantly, “Did you think of me? Ever?”

 

"I'm here, aren't I?" Yunan tips his head forward, letting his cheek rub against Solomon's with a pleasantly warm, shaky exhale escaping his lips. "I generally don't meet a king twice." 

 

“Did you come to tempt me into depravity?” Even as he says it, Solomon isn’t entirely sure what he’d do if the answer were yes. _Give in, probably, and taste it with both hands._

 

"Depravity?" Yunan sounds genuinely confused by that. "No, I rather like you. Unless you think I'm depraved by inviting myself into your lap…"

 

Solomon looks up, swallowing hard. “That depends….what you want to do there.” He can hear his pulse again, and he loses the battle to keep _all_ of himself sitting quietly still.

 

"… You seemed to have some good dreams before, prior to me leaving you," Yunan says, amused. "I think you've a better idea of what you _want_ of me." 

 

Really, Solomon had thought himself long past blushing like a child, but apparently he was far from correct. “You have me ever at a disadvantage,” he manages, barely. “But….what is it you want from me?”

 

"Nothing you aren't already inclined to give." Ah, grown or not, Solomon is still easy to _fluster_. It's satisfying, and Yunan butts his face into the man's shoulder, into his hair, squirming closer with a sigh. "I rarely indulge like this," he murmurs. "But there's something about _you_ …" 

 

“I suspected you’d done it on purpose,” Solomon whispers, and lets his arms wrap around the Magi, pulling him closer in a way that couldn’t be taken as innocent, not by anyone. “I thought you sent me those dreams on purpose, all the dreams for the last ten years.”

 

"I did no such thing," Yunan huffs out, a little squeak caught in his throat as he finds himself quite firmly pressed to Solomon's chest-- _much_ broader now, much stronger, and ah, that's surprisingly _nice_. "You apparently have a dirtier mind than you want to believe, _Your Majesty_." 

 

“Oh, I realized it eventually. But at first, when you said you could control what dreams I had….I did wonder.” Waking up hard and aching in an old rug, alone, he’d wondered. He tips Yunan’s face up, breath hitching. “I know now. Should I show you what I dreamed about?”

 

"All I said was that I'd banish any bad ones." Yunan's fingers splay against Solomon's shoulders, an insistent wriggle forward urging him to lean into the touch of the king's hand. "But show me anyway, the ones I left you with," he murmurs, eyes lidding. 

 

One broad hand cups Yunan’s face, sliding back to his hair, pulling him closer. “I dreamed first,” Solomon says softly, “of kissing your lips.” He leans forward, brushing his lips over Yunan’s hesitantly at first, a feather-light touch, still afraid someone will smite him for daring so much.

 

It's probably a bad, or at least a _dangerous_ thing, that Yunan thinks he could stand to be kissed like this for some time.

 

It makes him shudder, that first brush of Solomon's mouth against his own, his own lips parting with a hitching breath. His hands slide up to clutch loosely at the king's hair, tugging as he surges up to kiss Solomon more firmly. _If that's what you dreamt, then make good use of it now._  

 

The weight of relief--that he _wasn’t_ wrong, that Yunan _isn’t_ angry, that Yunan _does_ taste and feel as good as he’d imagined in all those long lonely years--is so strong it’s palpable, and Solomon’s knees feel weaker than they should. It’s a good thing he’s sitting down, especially good with how nice it feels to be pressing against the Magi, feeling the slight weight of him in his arms, and Solomon sucks Yunan’s lower lip into his mouth, hands sliding up and down his back, squeezing, pulling him closer still. His mouth tastes exotic, light, intriguing, and Solomon gives up caring about being embarrassed that he’s hard.

 

Even if Yunan didn't exactly imagine their second meeting to be like _this_ , he's far from _complaining_.

 

And that's saying something, isn't it? Normally, this sort of thing annoys him at best. Now, with Solomon's hands dragging up his spine, his mouth hot against his own and the taste of the king on his tongue, Yunan groans, his eyes fluttering as he lurches forward, huffing out a hot breath between kisses as he eagerly squirms down. His own skin heats at the hardness of Solomon's cock pressing up against him, his own body quick to twitch to life in kind.

 

Solomon sucks in a breath through his nose, then groans at the press of Yunan down against his lap, making everything so much more _difficult_ all of a sudden. He nips at Yunan’s lip, one hand tangling in his hair, the other stealing down to squeeze his ass, yanking it closer so he can rub against him with every slow roll of his hips. “What if,” he murmurs against Yunan’s mouth, “I showed you the rest of what I dream about right here on the throne?”

 

"Good," is the immediate, breathy gasp to follow, and Yunan's hips desperately squirm down, savoring the tense, aching slide of their bodies against one another. "P-please… I…" It isn't _just_ the heat of Solomon's body, though the pulse of him against him is _maddening_. It's the low, steady thrum of magic that leaves Yunan breathless, and his teeth set themselves to Solomon's lower lip in kind, sucking on it with a little, ragged pant of breath. "You feel… _nothing_ like anyone else…" 

 

“Neither do you.” It isn’t that Yunan is male--he’d thought it might be, after taking a girl to bed hadn’t been nearly as exciting as he’d anticipated, and taken a doe-eyed sweet-mouthed boy to bed the night after, but it had been more of the same. Good, but nothing like being curled up in a dirty rug with a stranger. There’s something about this, something about Yunan, or--as he’s starting to believe--something about them _together_ that makes his skin prickle, makes his blood dance. He wants to take his time touching every part of the Magi’s body, hands dragging down over his back, his ass, his thighs, but at feeling the heat of his inner thighs, he can’t help but slide his hands up, daring, eager, brushing over the hardness there.

 

Yunan fairly _mewls_ , the forward twitch of his hips not entirely something he can control when Solomon's hand is so warm and sliding up between his legs like he _owns_ him. That _shouldn't_ make him harder. It should irritate him, should make him want to end this right then and there, but it's the opposite, and that's both terrifying and alluring all at once. 

 

"Is that all you dreamt of? Touching me like that?" Yunan can't help but bury his face into Solomon's neck, teeth nipping into skin as he eagerly ruts forward, a hand of his own pawing at the king's clothing, wanting past it all to better grab at _his_ cock. He swallows hard, a little too fast. "You're so _hard_." 

 

Solomon sucks in a breath, eyes lidding at the scrape of Yunan’s teeth, at the press of his hand. He _never_ remembers being this hard, not even close, or even simply _wanting_ someone this much. “Not even close to all I dreamt of,” he growls, and it’s a testament to how much he’s controlling himself that he doesn’t simply tear Yunan’s clothes off.

 

Then he gives up, and tears Yunan’s clothes off anyway, shoving his own off, hauling the Magi back into his lap, rubbing his aching cock against Yunan’s, the sticky-slickness of them against each other making him groan. “This,” he says, with a nod. “Dreamt about this a lot.”

 

Yunan's teeth sink into his own lip, his eyes fluttering as he bucks forward, the slick, aching slide of his cock against Solomon's almost too much to bear. Glancing down and _seeing_ the slide and drag of their flesh against one another makes it even _worse_ \--or is that _better,_ seeing how heat twists low in his belly and makes him moan?--and he reaches a hand down, fingers trembling as they try to wrap around both of them, to squeeze and give them something better to thrust up against. "Your hand's better," he pants out, grabbing for Solomon's--much, much better, if only because it's _bigger_ , and that's _nice_. 

 

Solomon wraps a hand around both of them, and with the _squeeze_ and slide of Yunan’s cock against his, his hips twitch up hard, feeling both of them so hard they’re throbbing. “Good,” he breathes, eyes locked on Yunan, trailing down to watching them rub against each other, Yunan’s slender cock flushed red at the tip and rutting up into his hand, his own thick and red and straining, both of them _eager_. “Better than I dreamt,” he admits on a breathless half-laugh, then grabs Yunan for another kiss, stroking them faster as he does.

 

Solomon, Yunan hazily decides, isn't quite _fair_.

 

His mouth is hot, his hand slick no matter the roughness of it, and it feels good, _so_ good to rut up into it, sliding against Solomon's hard, twitching cock in kind. He can't quite recall a time he was so hard, especially squirming in another man's hold--a _king's_ hold, at that… but this, this is something different. 

 

Yunan's breath catches hard in his throat, his breathy sounds of approval hitching to whines muffled and lost into Solomon's mouth as he comes, flushed and shaky and spilling hot and slick over the king's grasp. Boneless, he sags into Solomon's chest, hips still twitching up weakly, needing _more_ no matter how everything feels fuzzy about the edges, no matter how he aches, entirely too sensitive.

 

His dreams could never come close to the way Yunan looks when he loses himself.

 

Solomon lets out a noise that’s hardly _kingly_ , thrusting up into his hand, rutting against the pale flushed length of Yunan’s cock, feeling the sudden wet heat of it, and the sight of his face contorted in pleasure is _more_ than enough. He spills hot and sudden, a strangled groan ripped from his chest as he bucks up twice into his fist, making both of them filthier still, which only brings a grin to his face. “That,” he murmurs, pulling Yunan close no matter the mess, “had to be more of your magic.”

 

Yunan's head shakes slowly, lolling forward onto Solomon's shoulder as he breathes a long, shaky sigh. "No magic," he mumbles, eyes fluttering closed. "At least, nothing on _purpose_. I can feel you--all of you, how it winds through you when you breathe…" 

 

Solomon’s eyes blink open, slightly mystified at that. “That isn’t just me?” He’s been feeling Yunan’s breath for a while now, not to mention those…. _things_. “I can see your--what do you call them, the tiny white birds?”

 

 _That_ makes him lift his head, blinking dazedly. "… My rukh? You can see that?" Considering he's never _told_ anyone about that, not in a long, long while, Solomon can't possibly be lying. "No one's been able to see that before." 

 

“I’m not trying to see them or anything, they’re just….so happy around you.” Solomon’s smile is a lazy, slow thing, and he nuzzles down into Yunan’s hair. “I see them sometimes. Rarely. My own, sometimes, but not as much as yours. They _love_ you.”

 

Yunan exhales a slow, contemplative breath. "No one's been able to see them before at _all_ ," he murmurs, setting his chin atop Solomon's shoulder as he nestles closer. "You're very odd." 

 

“I’m the odd one? You’re the one who gave himself a strange title, and flits around a thousand countries in a tornado of the things.”

 

"I didn't name myself. Weird kings and stuff did that," Yunan complains, biting at the lobe of Solomon's ear petulantly. "And it's rarely a tornado. I just float around." 

 

Solomon shivers at the bite, a little rumble starting in his chest. “If you keep doing that, I’ll want to take you to my bed and have you properly,” he warns, voice low. “If...if that’s what you want. If you don’t mind.”

 

"This wasn't proper enough for you? We made a mess of your throne," Yunan points out, lips curving. "You can wait. I just got here, after all."

 

 _Waiting_ is a lot easier than just plain never having. And until maybe an hour ago, Solomon had had no thought in his head that he’d _ever_ have Yunan, as an advisor or a bedmate or even a friend. He settles back in his chair, a lazy smile on his face. “What did you think of my country?” he asks, fingers sliding slowly down Yunan’s arm.

 

"I haven't seen much of it yet," Yunan admits, nestling forward with a sigh. "But what I did see is nice. I've heard lots of good things, too. Ah, but the guardsmen on your borders are very rude, they didn't want to let me pass. Not that it matters, I just flew over them."

 

“You should make yourself a more frequent guest,” Solomon suggests. “I’ll make certain they all know your face, you’ll be able to pass in and out at will.” _Or better yet, never leave at all._

 

"Well, I did want to stay for a bit… I don't have anywhere else to be right now," he says, grabbing a handful of Solomon's hair to toy with. "Assuming you'll have me, of course."

 

“I’ll have you,” Solomon assures the Magi, “in every way you’ll let me.” He hadn’t _intended_ it to come out quite so forward, but he doesn’t exactly want to retract the statement nonetheless.

 

"How many dreams have you been _having?_ " Yunan teases, flopping against him with a content little wriggle. "Either way, feed me and give me a warm bed and I'll stay for awhile." 

 

Solomon laughs, tightening his arms. _Every night. Every night since I was a child, and you’re the reason I don’t dream about my first kill every night._ “I think I can manage that much.”

 

~~

 

Solomon's country _is_ good.

 

Over the past week, Yunan has been privy to seeing quite a bit of it. He hasn't exactly asked for a guided tour, but he takes off well enough on his own to wander about. It's better to see it without Solomon boasting about one thing or another--though at least he's sort of cute about it, being so eager to please and meet Yunan's expectations… 

 

Pleasant enough is his bed as well, something Yunan has been content to take over on most nights. Solomon is warm, a good pillow, and even warmer when riled, and Yunan rather enjoys watching want and _need_ flash over the man's face before he pulls away, curling himself into a ball to sleep.

 

It isn't as if he _means_ to be an awful tease. Well, perhaps he does, just a bit, but Solomon's reactions are a judge on whether or not he should let the man have his way however he wants.

 

Yunan supposes he should end his suffering. He _does_ like Solomon--likes the way it feels to be around him, the play of rukh and magic ever a distracting thing. Sprawling out naked on the king's bed, hair undone and still damp from a bath in broad daylight should be balm enough, but men are men and Yunan knows _that_ well enough, especially when it comes to kings.

 

After sitting through an audience that had seemed to drag on forever, Solomon’s only thought is returning to his chambers, maybe grabbing Yunan’s hair and feeling the silk slip through his fingers, and falling blissfully into sleep. He drags himself up the stairs, closes the door behind him, and stops. 

 

Yunan is sprawled out naked on his bed, _his_ bed, looking indolent and pleased with himself, inviting and too comely for words, and the heat rises in Solomon like it never has to anyone else. The desire to _pounce_ is there, but he tamps it down, leaning back against the door, letting his eyes drag over every bit of pale, unblemished skin. “Don’t you look nice.”

 

Yunan scarcely looks up from the parchment he's dragged from who knows where. "Your servants are intent on seeing me bathed and often. You know," he says carelessly, shifting onto his side so that the curve of his hip juts up just slightly, and his hair slides away from the round swell of his ass, "you've quite a way with words, in your texts."

 

“It’s one of my joys.” Difficult, so difficult to keep from just _jumping_ on the man, and at this point Solomon isn’t even sure what Yunan is trying to do, tease him into jumping or tease him into leaving. “Looking at you like this is another.”

 

A pair of blue eyes look back at him innocently. "Like this? If it's such a joy, I'm surprised you haven't joined me."

 

“When I join you, you pull away. At least like this I can look.” Vaguely, Solomon wonders if Yunan would mind very much if he touched himself, just watching.

 

"I'm _inviting you_ , King Solomon." Yunan arches a brow, pushing the stacks of writing aside. "Or do you have other plans?"

 

Solomon casts off his robes faster than he ever has, and with a wave of his arm sends all his writings to the floor. He covers Yunan’s body with his own, a bit of the pent-up lust of the past weeks surging through him, riling him, and he pins Yunan down onto his back, kissing him with all the fire burning in his breast.

 

 _Men will be men_ \--that is an understatement. 

 

Solomon isn't _just_ a man. Yunan can feel that as starkly as he can feel the heavy press of the king's body against him, every hard muscle and hitch of his breath when he's kissed so hard that the breath is stolen from his own chest. He groans, squirming, twisting to better arch against him, his hands scrabbling along broad shoulders and down that strong back. "That took… very little encouragement," he half-laughs between kisses, his own skin flushing hot. 

 

“You’ve been _encouraging_ me for weeks,” Solomon breathes, nipping sharply at Yunan’s lip, holding him down as he hadn’t dared the first time, or any time since. He pulls back just enough to drag rough hands down Yunan’s body, up his belly and chest, down his sides to grip his thighs, stroking the insides of them with his thumbs. “Unless you stop me,” he says, voice low and urgent, “I’ll have you now.” It’s not quite the careful question of permission he’d intended, but Yunan is soft and yielding and lean under him, his mouth tastes like summer, and Solomon ruts up hard, cock sliding forward between Yunan’s thighs.

 

A low, broken whine pulls from Yunan's throat, and he swallows hard, his thighs spreading with a hard shudder. Solomon is _big_ , and always so hard and hot against him that it makes his mind sort of fuzzy. Pleasant, when his pulse jumps and throbs in his veins, when those rough hands feel so good sliding against him and making him squirm just with a touch. "I'm not stopping you," he breathlessly manages, biting his lip. He shouldn't _like_ being held down by this man so much, but it certainly makes his own cock harder than it's ever been.

 

That’s as close to permission as Solomon knows he’s going to get, and certainly enough for now. He kisses Yunan again, hard and deep and slow, sucking on his lip, his tongue, nibbling and sighing, before pulling away to grab a small pitcher of oil. “Spread your legs,” he breathes, “and lean back, I want to make you ready.” He slicks himself before tipping the pot slightly, letting a thin stream of oil drip down onto Yunan’s hole before setting the pot aside, slowly working in a large, long finger, biting his lip at the tight heat of the other man.

 

Even Solomon's _fingers_ are big. They feel even bigger inside, and Yunan flops back onto the pillows with a huff of breath, a shaky, breathless whimper escaping as his legs tremble to stay splayed wide with the distraction of that already tight stretch. "I've never… taken someone so large as you," Yunan admits, shivering as he slides a hand down to the back of his own thigh, all the better to draw his leg back and make it somewhat easier. 

 

Solomon’s blood pulses in his head, in his fingers, in his cock, every part of him _hungry_ and wanting nothing more than to be buried in that slick tight grip. He takes it slow, reminds himself not to _hurt_ Yunan, not when it had taken so long to get him here and he’s so precious, but ah, it’s difficult to go slow. He adds another finger, stretching him open, and murmurs, “I’ll be careful. Don’t worry, I’ve done this before.”

 

"I can… ah… t-tell--but--" Yunan's head lolls back with a groan, eyes squeezing shut as his body seems to insist on _squirming_ , wriggling down against Solomon's hand for more. "W-what if… I don't want you to be so careful?" 

 

Solomon’s breath stops for a full second, and he swallows hard, mouth gone dry. He thrusts his fingers in a tight little circle, widening and spreading Yunan open, then pulls them out, slicking himself again until he’s dripping, the scent of the oil warmed by his skin, aromatic between them. He leans up, rubbing forward against Yunan’s hole, and yanks his head back by the hair, baring his neck. “Then,” he breathes, hearing the hitch in his own voice, “ask for what you want.”

 

It should be a sin, being this _hard_.

 

Yunan swallows, throat bobbing, the harsh pull on his hair keeping his neck bared almost making it _hurt_. "Want…" his voice breaks, hitching when he tries to squirm down, the thick head of Solomon's cock pressing against him enough to make his toes curl. No other man--certainly no other _king_ \--has made him want so badly. "W-want you to fuck me. Take me, use me, make me yours--even… even if it's too much--"

 

Solomon has been good.

 

That’s _enough_ of that, and now he bites down on the pale exposed column of Yunan’s neck, feeling the flutter of his pulse there, sucking on the skin and raising a mark before pulling back, wanting to see the look in those wide blue eyes as he shoves slowly, inescapably inside. 

 

It almost doesn’t go. 

 

Yunan is so tight Solomon takes three tries, one hand guiding himself, feeling the unbearable tightness of that hole as he finally forces the head inside, followed too-swiftly by the rest of him, and all the breath leaves his lungs in a startled huff. “Ahh--didn’t mean to--are you--”

 

A weak, broken groan pulls from Yunan's throat, lower lip trembling before he bites down onto it, hard enough to bleed. "G…good," he whines out, eyes rolling back as his hips twitch down, no matter how he _aches_ , no matter how his thighs quiver from the impossible urge to close even though he absolutely _can't_ with how wide he's spread. Never, _ever_ has he felt so full, stuffed to the point he feels like he might break in half, and it's sort of maddeningly good, that deep-seated ache that makes him moan and mewl far from on his own accord, tears pricking into his eyes when his muscles clench. "Can't…ahh… you're really… c-can you even move like this? It's…" _A lot, way too much_.

 

Solomon had thought he wanted to see Yunan’s face, his eyes when he had fully seated himself.

 

It almost throws him over the edge.

 

The play of emotions on his face, hungry-needing- _want_ and the flickering edge of pain, is enough to take away what little control he still has, and all he can do is laugh breathlessly, assuring him, “Oh, I can move. Hold on tight to something.”

 

His next thrust is more powerful, plunging into that slick heat enough to steal his breath all over again, little shocks of pleasure going up his spine, sweat beading on his back and in his hair as he rolls his hips, sliding in and out of that obscene squeeze, eyes tracking down to watch his cock disappearing inside the Magi. “You--wanted you like this, so long--”

 

Yunan _sobs_ , the sound broken, needy when he desperately digs a hand back into the mattress over his head, the other clawing down Solomon's spine as he gulps, the hard, _long_ thrust of Solomon up inside of him making his cock pulse, making his back arch until it's nearly painful. When Solomon shoves up even _deeper_ somehow, Yunan's brow knits with the effort of taking him, his mouth slack and voice caught in his throat, every muscle wrapped around him a trembling, tense thing. "N…need it," he helplessly manages to gasp out, twisting a hand up through the king's hair. "Need you fucking me. Don't stop 'till--until you _own me_ \--"

 

Solomon has never been more grateful for his own natural endurance.

 

He slams in deep, liking the way it makes Yunan’s mouth fall open, loving the way it draws those needy, broken sobs and whines from the Magi’s mouth, wanting _more_ of it, wanting Yunan to break apart and scream on his cock, loving the drag of nails down his back as if nothing Yunan does gets him _close_ enough. “You,” he pants, grabbing Yunan’s hips hard enough to bruise, yanking him down into every rough thrust, “look good being fucked.”

 

He leans down, teeth scraping over Yunan’s neck as he mutters, “Tell me you’re mine. Tell me you belong to this king who takes you so hard.”

 

Yunan _thinks_ he manages a dazed, helpless nod. It's all he _can_ manage for a moment when Solomon is buried so deep inside that he can't breathe, that the noises from his lips are just breathy little whimpers and mewls at best. 

 

He's _never_ been fucked so thoroughly. Never thought it would feel so good, either, but god, it does, being shoved and yanked around, being pulled onto a cock that he was _sure_ wouldn't fit inside, and just sparing a tear-glazed glance down to where their joined makes his breath hiccup, _seeing_ the stretch of it making it feel that much bigger. "Y-yours," he chokes out, eyes rolling back as his cock _throbs_. "I'm y-yours, just… just fill me up and _mark me_ so everyone knows--" Just the _thought_ of Solomon coming inside of him does him in, and Yunan's voice breaks as he comes, whimpering as he shudders helplessly, trapped within Solomon's hold, the weight of his body, the thickness of that hard cock inside of him.

 

The trembling squeeze of Yunan around him, when he’d _already_ thought it was impossible for him to get any tighter, is far more than Solomon can handle. He sounds more like an animal than a man, much less a king, when he buries his face in Yunan’s neck, grunting and groaning as he spills harder and _more_ than he ever has before, filling him, leaving him utterly, totally drained as he sags down on top of Yunan. 

 

For a long time he can’t speak, shocks twitching up and down his body, everything a hazy hot storm of _good perfect you need good yes_ swirling in his mind, and like this, he can see the little magic birds around them more clearly than ever.

 

Yunan sags back, his vision still _thoroughly_ a blur no matter how he repeatedly blinks back tears. Shifting makes him bit his lip, feeling the slick mess of Solomon inside of him prompting him to shudder all over again, no matter how spent he feels. 

 

And by god, that's a lot of rukh.

 

He can't quite think about it just then, not when Solomon is so hot above him still. "Next time," he mumbles, butting his face into the man's shoulder, "throw me over something whether I act like I want it or not. Guarantee I actually want it." 

 

Solomon thinks vaguely, in that slow, heady way he’s still able to think at all, that his body shouldn’t thrum and twitch at those words. “Noted,” he rasps, leaning slightly to the side, just enough to be lying mostly on the bed instead of on Yunan’s small frame, even as his cock twitches and starts to fill at those words alone. “Did you want me to this whole time? Or was it a test, to see if I’d wait until you invited me?”

 

Yunan rolls, flopping himself against Solomon with a languid wriggle. "It was a test," he admits, nuzzling up underneath the king's chin. "Most kings don't like to be told 'no', or to wait at all. It's becoming clear to me, though, that you aren't most kings." 

 

Solomon heaves a sigh of relief. At least it wasn’t pointless. At least it _meant_ something. “You’re….enigmatic. I like that. I don’t like to break things or people.” That’s sort of all he can say, especially when he’d started to harden at the very thought of taking Yunan despite his protests. “The, ah, offer you just extended? Is that another test?”

 

A grin follows, and Yunan shakes his head. "No, you already passed. _That's_ just an offer. You won't break me, don't worry." 

 

Solomon moves fast, back onto his knees and flipping Yunan onto his belly, hiking up his hips. He moves forward just a bit, rubbing his half-hard cock against Yunan’s ass, still slick and dripping with him. “What if I took you again right now? Would you….” He licks dry lips. “Tell me to stop?”

 

Ah.

 

His mind sort of hiccups when Yunan finds his face pressed down into the pillows, a squeak escaping his throat before he can stop it. _No_ , he immediately, dazedly thinks, _I'd beg you to put your cock right back inside of me_. But that's not the game, not what is making his own cock harder by the second, and Yunan huffs, squirming to wriggle himself away. _Hold me down, leave bruises_. "Can't," he pants out, _hardly_ an answer. "T-there's… there's no way it'll fit, it was too much before, please don't--" 

 

Even if Yunan hadn’t just told him that it’s nothing but an act, the way he’s writhing, the way his breath hitches in _anything_ but protest is enough to tell him that’s a lie. That gives him permission to enjoy this, _far_ more than he should. Yunan is ridiculously strong, magically speaking, and Solomon doesn’t have a doubt that he could be through the wall in an eyeblink, but Yunan _likes_ this.

 

And he’s starting to suspect he does, too.

 

“Too bad,” he breathes, and his cock throbs at the words. “I’m going to shove it back in you whether you want it or not.” Ah, he’s fantasized about something like this, but never imagined actually _saying_ those words, not to anyone. His hand is shaking slightly when he wraps it around his cock, guiding it to the sore, dripping hole, and guiding it in. “If you don’t want me inside--” he chokes out, eyes rolling back at the snug, slick heat, “you should be _tighter_ back here.”

 

It certainly still _feels_ tight--maybe not as bad as before, but the edge of _soreness_ makes Yunan groan, a weak thrash and squirm all he can manage when Solomon sinks into him again, so deep that like this, it makes his muscles draw so tight that they almost _cramp_. "Ahh--ah, god, _please_ don't--" he whines, tears pricking his eyes as he tries to claw his way forward, off of Solomon's cock, away from that hard, aching stretch, a last ditch effort at _resistance_. "Hurts--I c-can't, you're too big--"

 

“Beg all you want,” Solomon breathes, tightening his hands on Yunan’s hips, yanking him harshly back onto his cock, lunging forward to press him bodily down to the mattress, letting his weight rest on the slighter man, “I’m still going to have you.”

 

Yunan is tight and squirmy and making the _prettiest_ noises, and Solomon has to remember to _pace himself_ , to not just come in him again right away when he can hear every breathy sob, every whining cry.

 

That _shouldn't_ make him so hard.

 

It shouldn't make him twitch and groan, his cock so hard that he drips, shuddering and leaking all over the blankets as he's held down, stuffed full again and again of Solomon's cock. It _does_ hurt--a shuddering, aching sort of hurt that makes him feel all sorts of overused and fucked out, and Yunan's struggles turn to pathetic little squirms, ragged pants and moans muffled into the sheets when he bites down, unable to stop the backward lurch of his body, the urge to shove back against every inch of that thick cock inside of him.

 

Solomon lets out a dark, delighted little chuckle that turns quickly into a groan when he snaps his hips forward, burying himself in Yunan’s body completely. “Look at you,” he grunts, giving Yunan’s braid a tug, then another, watching the slide of himself between the cheeks of Yunan’s ass. “You can’t even close your legs, can you? For someone who doesn’t _want_ this….you’re really hard.”

 

"I--" Yunan's breath catches in his throat, a high, broken sound catching there when the yank on his hair makes his back arch, makes him slide back onto Solomon's cock all the more, and he _tries_ to claw his way forward, to get away no matter how his body shakes. His body clenches tight in stark refusal, the slick, hot slide of Solomon's cock making him bite down into his lower lip. "I don't--p-please, just let me go, I'll do anything just _please_ \--"

 

Solomon’s blood shouldn’t be pumping so hot. Every part of him surges with it, a primal, heady lust like he’s never felt before, making him _slam_ deep in just to hear Yunan wail. “All I want you do do,” he growls, yanking harder on Yunan’s hair this time, making him _bend_ , “is to _take my cock_.”

 

He reaches a hand around, rubbing hard over Yunan’s dripping cock. “You should show me how much you love being taken against your will, slut,” he breathes into Yunan’s ear, and follows that with a bite.

 

_Oh._

 

Being called _that_ shouldn't make his pulse jump so violently, but it _does_ , and Yunan's mouth falls open, voice caught in his throat when his hips lurch desperately forward, jerking against the rough slide of Solomon's hand. There's no helping how fast, how suddenly he comes, and he sobs as he spills over Solomon's fingers, trembling and shaking and rutting helplessly into the touch, no matter how he's so damnably oversensitive that it _hurts_. 

 

"Not a slut," he moans, sagging against the yank in his hair, eyes fluttering and tears streaking down his face. "'m n-not, please, c-can't take anymore, let me gooo--"

 

Solomon’s pulse thuds approval, and he slams in hard, again, again, taking Yunan so deeply he can hear his hips slapping against Yunan’s ass every time. “You are a slut,” he groans, and brings his hand up to Yunan’s mouth, messy and inaccurate, smearing his seed onto his face before shoving a finger between his lips. “Coming on a man’s cock who’s just _using_ you, didn’t you?”

 

He holds Yunan down now, an iron grip on his shoulder. “And I’m not going to let you go,” he promises breathlessly, “until I’m _done_ with you.”

 

If he wasn't so very, thoroughly spent, Yunan has no doubts that he would have lost himself _again_. It's some sort of obscene reflex that makes him moan helplessly around Solomon's finger, cheeks hollowing when he sucks. His breath is hot and ragged through his nose as he's fucked, shoved around and held down and his hips only still _up_ thanks to the hard cock buried in his ass, his body trapped and forced to take every thrust, every shove, every inch of cock that Solomon wants to give him. 

 

Solomon lets his fingers slip out of Yunan’s mouth, everything starting to go gray and red around the edges, and with a masterful effort, stops.

 

He holds perfectly still, bracing his weight on his arms, cock buried to the hilt inside Yunan, twitching and throbbing with every ragged breath. He leans down, every instinct he has shrieking at him to _move_ , to find his pleasure, to shove himself over the edge into bliss, but there’s something he wants first.

 

He scrapes his teeth along the edge of Yunan’s ear, sucking it slowly into his mouth, and asks almost casually, “Do you still want me to leave you alone, slut? Want me to take my cock out of you?”

 

Solomon is so hard inside of him that he can barely stand it. Yunan groans, his head lolling, cheeks flushed hot and body shivering, twitching with every breath exhaled against his skin, every throb of Solomon deep inside of him. "I… _please_ , can't take it anymore," he half-sobs, _trying_ not to let his hips twitch back, something nigh impossible when he's spread so wide, so _full_ , and his body has long given up answering to him. "H-hurts, don't wanna be your slut--"

 

Solomon laughs, dark and breathy, and he groans as he slides in harder, knowing Yunan’s taking all of him and trying to stuff him more full anyway, grinding in to the root, wanting him to feel _full_. “Your mouth is a liar, slut,” he grunts, and pulls entirely out, just to run a fingertip around the sore, swollen hole before shoving back in. “Your body wants me.”

 

He presses a sloppy, messy kiss to Yunan’s cheek, picking up a brutal rhythm again. “And I’m going to fill your body with my seed until it comes out your mouth.”

 

"N-no--" _Yes, god, yes_. "Don't--not inside me, please, not _inside_ \--" _Fill me up, want to be dripping for days_. Yunan _sags,_ sobbing into the sheets with every slap of Solomon's hips, his eyes rolling back when the king _grinds_ in, his body a helplessly twitching, clenching thing around every slick inch of him. He shouldn't like feeling like a toy, a doll and a _hole_ for Solomon's amusement, but _god_ \--"Begging you, please _don't_ \--"

 

“That’s good,” Solomon grunts, hands leaving bruises in Yunan’s hips now, almost hard enough to _break him_ and holding back by a thin layer of will. “I like it when you beg.”

 

He wants to say more, but he’s _lost_ , a cataclysmic shudder raking through him when he comes, spilling deep inside Yunan with a flurry of sudden, savage thrusts, only stilling once there’s nothing left in him, not sagging down on Yunan so much as he _collapses_.

 

The slick, wet heat of Solomon spilling within him makes Yunan muffle a groan into the sheets, his eyes squeezing tightly shut and his body giving a last, desperate quiver of protest before giving out into a boneless heap. Solomon's weight against him only leaves him feeling that much more used, and he weakly huffs, making no attempt to wriggle away--as if he _could_ , as spent and exhausted as he feels, every muscle trembling and hurting. 

 

It’s long, weighty minutes filled with nothing but panting breaths and the slow drip of fluids before Solomon finds his voice, and anything resembling control over his body. He has to clear his throat before he speaks, and winds up trailing off into an incomprehensible mutter anyway, turning his head to the side to brush a sloppy kiss to Yunan’s cheek. “Oh.”

 

" _Oh_ , he says," is Yunan's dazedly muffled reply. He wriggles half-heartedly. "Heavy."

 

“Deal with it,” Solomon mutters, freeing a hand to give Yunan a clumsy pat on the head. “Can’t move.”

 

"Ruuude," Yunan bemoans, though that's the extent of his protests when he flops right back down, face buried into a pillow. "We can do that again sometime." 

 

It’s a little distressing to Solomon that his pulse thuds dully at that, even as spent as he is, and at least that gives him the energy to roll off. “Please,” he murmurs, and the hand on Yunan’s head strokes down his braid. “I don’t mind telling you that after that, I’ll do anything you want if you’ll just stay.”

 

"Don't wanna leave right now," Yunan sighs out, making absolutely no attempt to move, though it is a little easier to breathe without Solomon's weight on him. "Good bed. Better sex. 'm stay." 

 

“Best sex,” Solomon agrees readily, sagging down onto the bed. “Kill me with sex just like that, that’s how I want to go.”

 

"Too young to die," is the Magi's prompt retort, even as he muffles a laugh into his pillow. "Save it for a few years at least."

 

“Bossy,” Solomon complains, grinning as he does. “Maybe I don’t want you to stay after all.” It’s too soon and forward besides, but he reaches out a hand, squeezing Yunan’s, trying to say all the things he’s already fairly certain he feels thudding away in his chest.

 

"You like that I'm bossy," Yunan sighs out, his eyes lidding as his own fingers squeeze loosely about Solomon's in kind. "Even if you didn't want me to stay, I'd be obnoxious and take up roost here, at least for a bit." 

 

“Mmm. Fortunately, I like that you’re obnoxious, too.” This all feels far too good to be true, even if Solomon does have a feeling Yunan will make as much trouble as he saves Solomon from.

 

It sounds like a hell of a challenge.

 

Solomon grins.

 

 

~~~

 

This lot is nearly useless.

 

Solomon is good at seeing the worth in hidden objects, hidden people, in drawing it out when others saw only refuse, but it’s difficult to see anything in _this_ collection. But...maybe one. Maybe.

 

He watches silent from the throne, still gleaming and new, none of the rough edges worn down yet, one broad hand gripping his staff. It takes him a long time to speak, in the throne room. The longer he waits, the more others speak, exhausting their lies and tricks, and the truth comes only late to light. Now, all he need do is watch as the nobles of tiny countries squabble, dragging up every dirty secret they can remember about each other, growing uglier with every slung word, slipping out of the carefully arranged stances and facial expressions they’d worn to try and impress the king before they knew _others_ would be present.

 

Finally, Solomon speaks, and the room grows silent. It grows silent even before he speaks, a hush falling over the room as he inhales a breath, as if they’d heard him prepare. “You are all worthy of consideration,” he says, and it isn’t a false claim. Some are worthy of consideration for being dumped in the ocean, but that’s a worth nonetheless. “But I must undertake a pilgrimage, and only one can sit on the golden throne in my absence.”

 

The tension quivers through the assembly, all petty grievances forgotten.

 

“Now, you will be set a series of tests to examine your worth. You would do best to surprise yourselves with your success. Magi, the first ring.”

 

Nothing happens.

 

Slowly, Solomon turns his head. There on Yunan’s little pavilion, where he _should_ see the familiar golden head of his Magi, is nothing.

 

His fingers curl around the staff. “Vizier. When did you last see Yunan?”

 

“Ah--some hours ago, Majesty, he stepped out for some air when the delegation--”

 

“Deal with this lot.”

 

Solomon stands, and everyone in the room goes instinctively to a knee, men and women alike, as he sweeps from the room. He doesn’t bother with stairs, a gale of wind summoned to take him up the center of the spiral staircase to the top of the Magi’s tower, something Solomon had ordered built for him brick by brick of white stone, with a glass-walled enclosure at the top so Yunan could see for leagues around. There is a loft even here, and Solomon’s voice is resonant enough that it rattles the glass. “Magi!”

 

Yunan rather inelegantly stirs, flopping gracelessly onto his back as he rolls over onto the pile of cushions and blankets that substitutes as _something_ of a bed. Blinking slowly, he squints up at the sun--ah, it's been a few hours now, hasn't it?--before simply rolling back over and curling long limbs around a particularly soft pillow. " _Grumpy_ ," he mutters, mostly to himself. "I've a name, you obnoxious excuse for a king." 

 

“If I called you by it, would you be at the audiences you were required to attend?” Down in the audience hall right now, they’re probably all milling around, wondering where he’d gone, and Khalid will have his hands more than full with preventing any sort of riot. Most of these so-called nobles are from warrior tribes, and don’t easily get along.

 

Promptly, Yunan wrinkles his nose in annoyed protest, pulling a pillow up and over his head instead. "I came. I got bored. So I left." 

 

“You will do as you are bid.” Solomon doesn’t raise his voice, but it rumbles deep enough to shiver the beams, eyes glinting. “And you are _bid_ to return to the audience chamber and make a miracle for my guests!”

 

That's about when a pillow is tossed out to smack Solomon in the face. "I'm not your _slave_. Ask nicely for once, and I won't be so inclined to _leave_." 

 

“ _Courtesy_ is reserved for those who complete every task, not for disobedient wizards who would rather curl up in a tower with bits of shiny metal they’ve--why do you _keep_ all these?” he wonders aloud, eyeing the little piled collections of metal and glass and various acquisitions.

 

"Pretty and shiny," Yunan dismissively answers, rolling back over onto his back. "Going places requires _clothes_." 

 

Solomon climbs the beams up to Yunan’s little resting place, shaking them with his weight as he lands, eyes flashing. “You will be properly attired to be at the side of a king! I am a bare insult away from shaking you dizzy, so choose your words wisely.”

 

Yunan frowns up at him, annoyance furrowing his brow. "You are _terribly_ pushy today. Perhaps I won't go at all or ever." 

 

Solomon draws on his patience, something that wears dangerously thin when Yunan is in one of his insouciant moods. “And if I groveled and begged for the miracles that flow from your hands like water? Would you grace my court as the...sleepy, rumpled sapphire-eyed jewel that you are?”

 

"Does it really make that much of a difference?" Yunan grumbles, pulling his mussed braid over his shoulder to pluck at a knot in the tail of it. "Also, you've never groveled, and it'd be sort of disgusting if you did, so don't." 

 

“You,” Solomon says, folding his arms, “test me. You test my patience. If you were less uncaring, I’d think you were testing me on purpose. Is that truly the only way to see the measure of a man?”

 

"This isn't a test, it's a request for more sleep or less boring _audiences_ or whatever you want to call them." The Magi promptly nestles his way back down into his pile of pillows. "You could always join me."

 

Solomon pauses. “Can you stop time while I’m here so the audience chamber only notices the passage of a few moments?”

 

An eyebrow lifts. "Does that constitute a miracle?" 

 

“Just getting you out of bed is a miracle,” Solomon murmurs, but he takes a knee on the edge of the blanket pile anyway, cupping a hand under Yunan’s chin. “Can you do it, my miracle worker?”

 

"Mmnn, something to that effect," Yunan breathes, _much_ more inclined to do a bit of work when he's being asked, not told, and he pushes himself up onto his elbows to better nuzzle his face into Solomon's hand. "Just a few moments need pass, hm?"

 

“Just a few. Call it a test of their patience, without letting them resort to murdering themselves on the floor I just had cleaned. And I,” he murmurs, leaning down until his lips are a bare inch from Yunan’s, “will have you thoroughly before they see me again.” He claims Yunan’s mouth with his own, hand sliding around to cup his head, drawing him into the kiss.

 

Even better, that he doesn't have to leave _bed_ to cast this spell. Yunan shivers, lurching up hungrily as his lips part, his hands grasping at his king's robes to pull him down. The errant swirl of rukh is a secondary thought, the magic easy enough to cast, and Yunan finds himself far more concerned with Solomon's lips and the slide of his fingers back through his hair. "If you decide to drag me out after this," he breathes, "I'll be even _more_ of a mess. What then?" 

 

“Then I will be the king who bedded a god.” Solomon’s eyes darken, and his teeth are sharp as they nip at Yunan’s neck, dragging rough hands down every bit of pale skin he can find, covering Yunan with the solid strength of his body. “You’re warm. Warm me, my Magi.”

 

There's little denying the allure of being literally dragged to Solomon's throne after this, something of a _display_ when he's bitten up and bruised and looks every inch a mussed whore. Yunan's mouth goes dry, and he swallows hard, squirming beneath the king as his legs splay, thighs soft and warm as they press to Solomon's hips, his hands eagerly pawing down his king's back, through his hair to grab and pull and keep those sharp teeth at his throat. 

 

One hand comes to the end of a messy braid, and makes quick work of it, setting the golden locks tumbling, mussed in an instant, but all the better looking for it. He settles down on top of Yunan, holding him down as easily as a rock pins a feather, every squeeze of his hands a rough one. “Remind me to have you disguise yourself as one of my concubines so I can have you in front of everyone. You’d sit on my lap, me deep inside you, and no one would bat an eyelash.”

 

The _thought_ of it makes Yunan groan, his cock so hard with the words alone that the upward lurch of his hips, the grind and press against Solomon is nearly agony with how hot he _burns_. "What's the point of a disguise?" he pants out, twisting, squirming up against him with an eager arch of his back. "Let everyone know you're fucking me, that I'm your conquered little _pet_." 

 

Solomon leans down, palming Yunan’s cock with a broad, calloused hand. “I do _try_ to keep your dignity intact,” he rumbles. “You’re to strike fear into the hearts of my enemies. If you were more... _obedient_ ,” he allows, pressing down to let Yunan feel how hard he is, casting aside his robes, “I’d be more inclined to tell the world just how much you enjoy being my pet. This way, it would only look like I indulge my lover.” The last word is softer, more tender, and Solomon brushes a kiss to a loose strand of hair.

 

 _Obedient_. The word makes Yunan's eyes flash, annoyed with the mere concept, courtesy of a dozen and a half kings that saw fit to try and tame him like he truly _was_ their pet, no matter how he hadn't even the inclination to look in their direction. "I'm not good at being _obedient_ ," he mutters, lurching up with a sigh, a nuzzle and nip to Solomon's throat as his hips slowly rock upwards. "I don't want to _serve_ you. I'm no less than you… no matter what comes out of my mouth in bed." 

 

Solomon huffs out a laugh, parting Yunan’s thighs with his hands, stroking his thumbs down the soft skin on the inside. “If you were any less than a god,” he breathes, curling his fingers around Yunan’s cock, rocking down against him, “do you think I would worship you so?”

 

"Says the man that--ahh… that feels good," Yunan trails off with a shuddering little sigh, twisting to buck up into the slide of those strong, calloused fingers, his eyes fluttering. "Ah… I… when you storm up here like you did, t-that's _hardly_ worshipping." 

 

“And when you leave me stranded in front of hundreds of nobles come to unify under my flag,” Solomon growls, fingers digging into the supple curve of Yunan’s ass, thumb trailing over his hole as his other hand strokes slowly down his cock, “you make me look a fool. That’s hardly _respect_.”

 

His hips jerk and his thighs bunch, spreading wider own their own accord as Yunan _whines_ low in his throat. "Already told you--it was _boring_ , I'm not waiting around through all of that. Though maybe… if you asked nicely… and god, would just put it _in me_ already--" 

 

“Patience.” Solomon ignores his own counsel well enough when Yunan is squirming so underneath him, a hard kiss and a sucking bite to his lip the only warning Yunan has. One hand comes to tangle in his hair from behind, holding his whole body up with ease as he sinks in, pressing hard and hot into Yunan’s hole. “I’ll--have to--keep you entertained,” he grinds out somehow, not nearly patient enough himself as he slides in hard and deep.

 

A strangled, mindless mewl leaves Yunan's throat, his eyes rolling back into his head and chest heaving as every inch of Solomon spreads and fills him, leaving his toes curling and his body trembling with tension. It's not slick enough, too much even if it _was_ , and Yunan sobs as he wriggles down all the same, tears pricking into his eyes at the impossible _stretch_ of him. "Fuck me," he pleads, eyes glazed, his face flushed hot. "Fuck me hard, l-like you would if I was nothing more than a whore--"

 

“My whore.”

 

Solomon’s voice is deep enough to resonate, and he lets go Yunan’s cock to pin his wrists down with one hand, hips snapping down as he thrusts in _hard_. “Needy whore,” he breathes, nipping at Yunan’s neck, hands bruisingly tight. “Desperate whore. You’re only alive when you’ve got my cock inside you, aren’t you? So serve your king,” he growls, sliding in hard with each word. “Show me how _depraved_ you are, all for a single coin.”

 

Yunan's breath hiccups with each sob, the brief squeeze-shut of his eyes enough to streak tears down his face as his legs spread wide, shaking and tensing with every thrust as he tries his best to hump down onto Solomon's cock, no matter how he _aches_. "N-need it," he admits on a rasping breath, _whining_ when Solomon shoves in so deep that he can't help but thrash, his body a taut, trembling thing that can't quite decide if it wants to wriggle closer or away. "Need it _hard_ , need all of you--god, _please_ ," he sobs, trying desperately to arch his back, to grind his cock against the hard, flat plain of Solomon's belly.

 

“Whining whore. I should punish you for your lewdness.” Solomon thrusts in deep, knowing he’s riding Yunan too hard, not caring enough to stop, every slam down driving him closer and closer to the edge. His mind fills with a thousand fantasies, all obscene, all with Yunan looking up at him through those shocking blue eyes, all making him harder still. He aches, and if he aches than Yunan will too, he vows to himself as he pounds into the Magi. “There, lie there and be a good hole while I use you.”

 

" _Yes_ , punish me, I--" His voice cracks and breaks, every sob and whimper dragged out in spades, and there's nothing he _can_ do but sag down, shaking as he's fucked so thoroughly, used like he really is just a whore, and that _shouldn't_ make him so damnably hard but it _does_.

 

Probably, he's supposed to wait. There's no helping it, though, when Solomon feels so good against and in him, stuffing him full and holding him down with a mere fraction of his strength, and Yunan groans as he spills hot and messy between them, not even _needing_ another touch to his cock when it's somehow even better that Solomon deliberately _neglects_ him. 

 

“So messy,” Solomon breathes, leaning down to run the tip of his tongue along the shell of Yunan’s ear. “Vulgar whore, coming from such words when I haven’t had my fill.”

 

He reaches a hand down, rocking slowly down into Yunan still, hard and demanding inside as he swipes a hand over Yunan’s softening cock, bringing the mess of it up to Yunan’s mouth. He smears a trail down across the Magi’s face, then slides two fingers into his mouth. “How many times should I make you spill yourself before I let you off your back?”

 

Yunan groans, his eyes fluttering as his tongue automatically curls around Solomon's fingers, sloppy, eager little licks and sucks quickly cleaning them. "I…isn't that… something you should decide, my king?" God, Solomon is still so _hard_ inside of him. It's maddening, a reminder that he simply _can't_ close his legs, and that makes his chest heave in a helpless little sob, his cock twitching already.

 

“Hmm, perhaps. All you need tell me,” Solomon murmurs, grabbing Yunan’s hips and hefting them up, pulling him closer until he can’t possibly get any deeper, “is how much you can take. I’ll be the man who fucked a god on his back, but I don’t want to be the man that _broke_ one.”

 

He nips harder at Yunan’s neck, leaving bruises as he sucks, and rubs a hand over the Magi’s chest. “You look like little better than an animal like this.”

 

Yunan shudders, sagging down, little more than a pliant, shivering doll in Solomon's grasp. "You can't break me," he breathlessly encourages, eyes fluttering as he twists his hips no matter the _twinge_ that goes up his spine. "A-and if I'm going to be an animal… then fuck me like one."

 

Solomon pulls out, knowing Yunan must be _aching_ , and mercilessly flips him over, hands on his hips. “You want to be an animal?” he hisses, and slides back deep inside, so much deeper in this position, shoving Yunan’s head down to the mess of blankets as he hikes his hips up. “What animal do you want to be, hmm? A dog?”

 

Something between a shriek and a whine pulls from his throat, his sobs lost into the blankets and pillows as he buries his face down, no matter how Solomon holds it there. "N-not a dog," he manages to gasp out, knees wobbling with the deep, _deep_ slide of Solomon's cock inside of him. "I… ride me like a _mare_ \--"

 

The muffled words go straight to Solomon’s cock, and he growls, hand fisting tighter in golden locks, starting to curl now that they’re free from the braid, and he brings his hand down hard on Yunan’s ass. “ _Disobedient_ mare,” he breathes, “needs a stallion.” He leans down, biting hard on Yunan’s neck as his hips pound up hard, slapping against pale flesh with every motion. “Little mare needs to be properly bred.”

 

There's probably something _wrong with him_ that hearing that makes him so hard all over again. God, but he doesn't care, not when he's being yanked back onto Solomon's cock, skin burning, his muscles _aching_ , and all he can do is pant and writhe and mewl, mouth falling open with the deep, hard shove of his hips. "She does, s-she really, really does," Yunan eagerly, mindlessly pants out. "Please, _please_ , come in me, fill me up so you've _claimed_ me--"

 

“You _sound_ like an animal,” Solomon rumbles. “Eager, needy, _whorish_ , no sense of shame.” He bites again, not bothering to touch Yunan _gently_ , only concerned with how hard he can yank the Magi down onto his cock, how much he’s going to _behave_ this time. He’s close--could hold out for another hour, another _day_ , but he can be merciful, and Yunan does feel _good_ around him, underneath him. He grunts, yanking Yunan down and biting again, no matter the marks he’ll leave, and as he comes he hisses, “Take it like a _good girl_ , now…”

 

Yunan groans, shuddering at that slick, wet heat filling him up, and god, but he does feel like a whore, as used and marked up as a damned mare that's been bred--all the better for it, he thinks hazily as he sags down, twitching and shivering with every heaving breath that he draws into his lungs. He _hurts_. He hopes he _keeps_ hurting. 

 

Solomon’s arms come around Yunan, rolling slowly to the side so he isn’t crushing the Magi with his weight, curling up behind him instead. “Prized,” he says quietly, tucking a messy strand of golden hair behind one ear. “Valued. Priceless.”

 

"… Are you saying that because I occasionally deign to throw about 'miracles'?" Yunan breathlessly retorts, his head lolling back against Solomon's shoulder. "Or because I really am?" 

 

“Because you are Yunan. Because you are mine. And because,” Solomon says, nuzzling his nose against a bitten neck, “if I were to worship a god, it would be you, regardless of your miracles.”

 

It's a good answer, one that spreads warmth immediately through him, and Yunan settles contently back against his king, tipping his head up to nuzzle beneath Solomon's chin. "I suppose I'll go to your audience, then… even though I _really_ don't want to get dressed now." 

 

“Whenever you feel like restarting time,” Solomon says indulgently, all his earlier irritation faded away. “They can linger in purgatory until then for all I care. I don’t care about much, when you’re in my arms.”

 

"Oh, _now_ you're being awfully sweet." 

 

“So sour me not.”

 

"You bring it on yourself," Yunan sighs, languidly stretching. "Call me 'Magi' again and not by name-- _and_ insult my collections… I'll be very upset." 

 

Solomon tilts his head. “Mm, do you not like being referred to by your title? Perhaps in public, to remind people that you are not some servant to will about, but a _Magi_ , removed from humanity…”

 

"It was more the way you _said it_ ," is the grumble to follow. 

 

“Yunan.” Solomon brushes a kiss over a hard bite, asking with a slow smile, “How was the way I said that?”

 

"… Very good," Yunan softly replies, a smile of his own sliding into place. "I like being _your_ Magi, though, so you can keep that in mind."

 

~

 

Black rukh.

 

Solomon has heard whispers of it for years, from dazed, frantic messengers bringing tidings of a band of travelers with silver tongues and hidden faces, moving amongst his people in the outer reaches of the world. Naturally, he had taken his Magi, hidden them both in an illusion of wayward travelers, the kind these dark mages liked to ensnare, and gone in search.

 

He’d half-expected it to be a rumor, nothing more, and for the first time in years, had been taken by surprise. The black rukh is strong, and the men are well-trained, striking fast at areas Solomon hadn’t trained in so long, and for the first time in decades he feels vulnerable.

 

He feels a lot more that way when he advances, knowing without asking that Yunan will be flanking them, intending to distract the men and being blindsided (him!! King of the world!) by a spear of pure darkness, driving through his chest to pin him to the ground. Pain like he hasn’t known in time out of mind surges through him, the shock, the confused, rage-filled thought of _I’m not ready to die!_ coursing through him.

 

_Yunan, my god, be careful._

 

There are few things that can rile Yunan to anger, and only one to rile him so _quickly_. 

 

Black rukh has a sharp, distinct signature to it. It's easy, with that in mind, to trace and grab at the man that attacked his king--easier still, when he is so _angry,_ to lash out, his staff more akin to a blade in that moment than anything when its edges are honed with ice. 

 

It's not quite satisfying enough just to _kill them_ , not when Solomon is still on the ground and Yunan would _like_ to attend to him. Worse still is the fact that just lopping off their heads, even with magic, does little--black rukh, it seems, spawns a far more terrifying species of magic than he had imagined it to. 

 

Finally, with corpses burning on the ground, his own chest heaving from the effort, Yunan whirls his attention back to Solomon, the hasty bolg tossed about him flickering and fading. "Can you stand?" he worriedly presses, kneeling with a hand reaching for the wound, hurriedly gathered healing magic about his fingers attempting to patch what he can in the spur of the moment. "Some of them don't quite _die_ like normal humans. They'll probably be back." 

 

Solomon nods before even being certain that he’s telling the truth, and it’s an act of will more than anything that drags him to his feet, ignoring the vaguely smoking hole in his chest. Yunan’s quick heal does something, at least, and he manages to stay upright, surveying the twisted, smoldering bodies. “It looks like the whispers were true,” he says, voice ragged and disappointed. “Where are they from? I’ve never seen clothing like this anywhere, in all my travels. Ah, let them come, I’m ready for them this time.”

 

"Arrogance isn't becoming when you're leaning on your Magi--you're _heavy_ ," Yunan mutters, voice still low with concern as he firmly presses his hand to Solomon's chest again, intent on healing a bit more before they move too far. "They speak our tongue, for what little I heard. But their spellcraft… it's different, and never _mind_ the black rukh." 

 

“They speak our tongue too well. It must be another dark sorcery, if they--” Solomon’s face goes white with a sudden stab of pain, and his face twists in a grimace. “There’s something--isn’t just a wound, ah, they did something, it’s….corrosive. Never mind the bleeding, can you purge it?”

 

"What? Let me see, let me see." Yunan spares a lingering, worried look over his shoulder at the smoldering bodies before he turns his full attention to Solomon, brow furrowing in irritation. It's been _awhile_ since someone has been able to lay hands upon his king, never mind a spell of any sort. It takes a lot to get past the man's guard in and itself, and to get past Yunan's _own_ shields is nigh impossible, but with that black rukh… 

 

Solomon's rukh lays out like a map before him, just with a touch, and Yunan pales a little, teeth worrying into his lower lip. "… Corrosive… isn't the word," he frets, plucking at a piece of blackened rukh and with some effort, it flutters white again in his grasp. "More like… virulent. We need to get to safety for me to properly purify you, it's making your rukh change."

 

Solomon makes a face, but nods, even though the motion makes his mind swirl unpleasantly. The pain in his chest isn’t worth thinking about, and he stumbles forward, pure will driving him on when every instinct in his body is telling him to collapse already and let it _change_ him. “Fine. Let’s just…”

 

He _wants_ to ask Yunan to fly them away, but that would be too obvious a sign to these men, so he grits his teeth and breaks into a run, heading for the shelter of a cluster of hills a few miles away. _Soon_ , he tells himself. _As soon as you get there, you can fall down. Not. Yet._

 

Not that Yunan quite _lets_ him fall down, even once they get there. More accurately, he grabs the man before his legs can crumple--an odd thing, when usually _he_ is the one taxing himself to that point, one way or another. That makes him nervous, and Yunan frowns, stabbing his staff into the ground and using that as the center point of a shield around them while he settles down to work. "Don't fall asleep," he urges, sweeping a hand over Solomon's brow. "Not yet. _Now_ is a good time to be stubborn, in case it wasn't clear."

 

Tremors start wracking Solomon’s body the second he doesn’t have to be _running_ anymore, and he sags down in Yunan’s hold, trying to remember how to suck air into his lungs. Everything is swimming, being twisted, and he swears he hears laughter with something other than his ears. Even Yunan’s face starts to twist, and Solomon slams his hand down onto the rocks, making the ground itself shiver with the force of it. That clears up his senses somewhat, at least enough for his vision to resolve properly. “Get it,” he says, a vessel jumping in his forehead, “ _out of me_. Burn it out if you have to.”

 

Truth be told, Yunan isn't sure he has a _choice_.

 

"Sorry," he hurriedly murmurs, and his touch blazes white-hot as it drags over the wound on Solomon's chest. "This is going to hurt." 

 

It isn't just Solomon who hurts by the end of it, though Yunan doubts the ache he feels compares in any way. _Burning_ each infected piece of rukh back to blazing, pure white is an unpleasant, taxing thing at best, and purifying the source of the infection in a hasty, rapid healing hardly any easier. Odder still are the dots of black around his own vision, and when Yunan finally flops down next to his king, he realizes they aren't dots, but little fragments of that black rukh, desperate for a vessel and lingering in an attempt to cling to _him_. 

 

 _Can we never leave the palace again?_  

 

Were he any other man, the pain itself might have killed Solomon. As he is, only a supreme act of will keeps him from screaming his throat raw, remembering that they’re _not_ far away from the attackers. At some point he closes his hand around a rock, and by the time Yunan sags back, only dust remains in his hand. “Don’t,” he tries saying, and his throat sticks, a torn and hoarse thing. He clears his throat, already losing his grip on consciousness, and tries again. “Don’t let it touch you.”

 

"I've _been_ touching it, it can't do anything to me--not like this. At least, I think," Yunan mumbles, his own vision a little hazy. Ahh. That _was_ a lot of magoi he used, wasn't it? "…How capable are you of clinging to me while I attempt to fly us to the nearest city?" 

 

Solomon feels about as weak as a newborn kitten, and about as dangerous to anything they might meet. “I can manage. But can you fly without them seeing us? I didn’t think...ah, do what you think is best,” he trails off into a mutter, head sagging down onto the ground.

 

"I'm going to fly in that way that you truly hate," Yunan tells him, forcing himself up to his feet and wobbling a little as he grabs for his staff. He sets it midair, and it hovers there when he reaches down to grab Solomon's hands and haul him up to his feet. "That is: really, _really_ fast. Please don't empty your stomach on me, my great and exalted king." 

 

“Wait, no, I don’t want--” Solomon cuts off the words that want to come out of his mouth, dismissing them as unimportant when this is _necessary_ , and he _knows_ it, and for all of Yunan’s mischief sometimes he wouldn’t do this on purpose unless there were no other choice.

 

Feeling the entire time as if his body has turned to slop, Solomon heaves himself to his feet, nearly blacking out with the shock to his body, and climbs up behind his Magi, hanging on tight. “Let’s get this over with so I can die in peace.”

 

Yunan sighs at him, but nevertheless reaches down to lay one hand over Solomon's, squeezing firmly. "You're being disgusting," he says, dispelling the shield around them with an errant wave of his hand, and a firm shove of gravity magic quickly puts distance between their resting place in seconds. "If you _do_ decide to vomit, at least avoid my hair," he adds, shoving away the tide of dizziness that sweeps over him as well when he firmly taps into the flow of rukh, and leaves their newly found enemies a long, _long_ ways behind them.

 

“Don’t worry,” Solomon gasps, vision going gray-white at the edges with every jolt of the staff against a wind current, hands gripping so tightly he has to remind himself not to shatter the staff. “I’m in too much pain to vomit.” 

 

He _hates_ feeling like this, had thought he was _finished_ feeling like an idiot who’d bitten off more than he can chew, but apparently the world has surprises for him still.

 

Against all odds, the thought of that makes him smile.

 

Their makeshift lodging for the night is a little too reminiscent of their young days, when they were both stupid and still bitching at one another for every little thing, ending up in too much trouble because of it and even fewer resources up their sleeves. Now, at least, they have more than a bag of coin between the two of them, and though it probably looks suspicious to be dumping Solomon onto the doorstep while he haggles with the innkeeper over pricing, Yunan has little choice, lest he want to haul a king that's little more than dead weight around at every opportunity. 

 

"No reports of those 'people' in this place, at least," Yunan offers once he finally has Solomon settled in a proper bed. Ahh, he still doesn't like the look of the man, and he frowns, flopping onto the edge of the mattress and smoothing dark hair from his king's face. "Are you in much pain still? There's no wound that I can put balm to, really, it's… nothing like I've seen before."

 

“Me neither. Isn’t that a little bit exciting?” Better to focus on that, at least, than on the fact that it still feels like his chest is trying to crawl out of his body. “It’s...not pain, exactly. It just feels _wrong_.”

 

He doesn’t bother thanking Yunan. Not now, not after so many years of giving and taking and aid and support between them. Besides, he’s hardly out of danger yet, not with the way his rukh twists and flutters at every opportunity, enough that he can’t help but watch in slightly horrified fascination.

 

Yunan huffs, and surrenders to the urge to just flop down next to his king. "It _looked_ wrong. Some of your rukh was all grey…" he murmurs, and rolls to the side, letting his own rukh flutter out and rest as a veritable blanket over Solomon. "Not allowed."

 

Solomon finds the reserve of energy to drape an arm across Yunan’s shoulders, pulling him close with a sigh. “Feels better already,” he assures the Magi. “I...hmm. How safe do you think we are here? I could go into a healing trance and purify it myself, but you wouldn’t be able to wake me until I was done.”

 

"… Not very," Yunan hedges, carefully arranging himself against Solomon's side. "My own reserves are low, so if that were the case, I'd be less than capable of protecting you. And anyway, it should be _mostly_ purified now. Some of the rukh just won't settle… I'm gonna eat them if they don't stop." 

 

Solomon nods. “Then don’t worry about it, I’ll stay conscious. We can always wall ourselves in to that little compound back at the palace when we get home.” He tugs gently on Yunan’s braid, bringing him closer still, grimacing at the odd pulling, tangled sensation in his chest. “And when we’ve recovered, we’ll go after them, and exterminate them. This ends.”

 

"You can still _sleep_. Just no trances. I'm _not_ carrying you out of here, you're far too heavy." Yunan carefully lays his cheek against Solomon's shoulder, eyes lidded. "You know, _I_ was quite content with peace and quiet. You're acting like a teenager again." 

 

“Is it acting like a teenager to be concerned about rumors of mysterious evil lurking around my borders?” Solomon asks, more amused than anything. “Besides, you didn’t know me as a teenager. You’d be loathe to make the comparison.”

 

"It's more the fact you're excited about something else to defeat and conquer," Yunan retorts with a roll of his eyes. "And no, maybe I didn't, but I can _imagine_. I bet you were an awful brat." 

 

“At least I didn’t hide in the bodies of animals,” Solomon murmurs, the affection doing much to dispel the last of the odd rukh, quieting the rest. “You really can sleep _anywhere_ , can’t you?”

 

"Rude. That shell was still around for a reason, what better use than to make it a house again?" The Magi promptly headbutts him. "What's so wrong with being able to sleep in various places?" 

 

“I would have been awful to you, if we’d met then.” Solomon stretches out, trying not to pull Yunan on top of himself like a blanket. “Back then all I thought about was fire and death. You’re lucky I’d been civilized by the time we met.”

 

Whether Solomon tries to or not, Yunan sort of ends up there all the same, a leg draped over the man's hips and an arm over the portion of his chest least wounded. "Civilized--that's what you called it, treating me like a street rat when we first met?"

 

It’s been many years since Solomon has given his mother much thought, and he’s somewhat surprised to find that the image of her causes him no grief now. “There is a reason,” he says, nuzzling his face into Yunan’s neck, “that when I was granted any wish of my heart, I asked for wisdom. At least I knew then that I had none.”

 

"Fair enough. So don't judge me now on whether or not I like to sleep in turtle shells." Yunan shuts his eyes, nuzzling his face into Solomon's neck. "Maybe they're comfortable. _You_ don't know that." 

 

“I know you were a brat back then,” Solomon counters, a grin on his face now, fingers stroking slowly down Yunan’s back. “You were almost the reason I was never king in the first place.”

 

"In the first place, _you_ were an ass," Yunan affectionately reminds him, a slow, rumbling purr sliding from his throat as he nestles himself against his king. "Still sort of are. I've just learned to appreciate it."

 

Solomon laughs deep in his chest, arm tightening around Yunan’s waist, and with Yunan atop him, the last of that odd twisting rukh finally seems to settle. “And you’re just as much of a brat. Cleaner, though.”

 

Yunan huffs. "Barely, or so you've often told me. Just because my hair tends to be messy doesn't mean it isn't clean, you know."

 

“What _I_ don’t understand is why you won’t let the maids take care of it for you. Or...for all your power, you could have little woodland creatures combing it out for you every morning, and birds braiding it. Not in my bed, though,” he adds as an afterthought.

 

"Now that's very biased. Maids are fine anywhere, but woodland creatures and birds are barred from your bed?" Yunan paints a rather convincing picture of affronted. "You and your bias against _birds_. I'll leave it messy, thank you." 

 

“You could let me braid it.” Solomon tightens his arm, a hint of mischief in his eyes. “I’d try harder not to pull this time. No matter how much I like the faces you make.”

 

"… That's why I won't let you braid it," Yunan says, nose wrinkling as his head butts up underneath Solomon's chin. "You _say that_ , but you're a liar. You'll pull it until I start squeaking again."

 

“Maybe if you didn’t sound quite so good when you squeak,” Solomon suggests. “That’s your real problem. It makes you sound like you want me to do things to you.”

 

"Ahh, so it's _my_ problem. Right, I can tell you're feeling just fine now," Yunan mildly says, giving Solomon's side an idle poke. "Good to know all it takes is me flopping on you and telling you that you're something of a lecher. Those men will be defeated in no time."

 

“Why do you think I bring you into battle?” Solomon teases, leaning down to press a kiss to the tip of Yunan’s nose. “Good as new. Though I think…” He looks down, and grimaces. “Still a hole in my chest. But I’ve had worse than that a hundred times.”

 

Yunan cranes his head up, teeth idly snapping against the line of Solomon's jaw as he gingerly slides a hand up, laying it against the wound in question. The rukh flutters with just that touch, the healing spell a little slower now that they aren't in so much danger--and, well, his reserves _are_ still low. Best not to tax himself too hard if he doesn't have to. "I'll not have you writhing in pain, all the same." 

 

Solomon laughs at that, easily ignoring the ache in his lungs, and he closes a hand over Yunan’s squeezing lightly. “Do I sound as if I’m writhing in pain? Save your strength, we don’t know nearly enough about those men, or their capabilities. They seem to be as good at cheating death as people always accuse us of being. I hate that.”

 

"You _looked_ like you were writhing in pain. When you make those faces…" Yunan trails off on a sigh, his fingers loosely curling as his grip switches nonetheless to squeeze Solomon's hand back in return. "I'll eat something later, and I'll be fine. It's just been awhile since I've had to use so much magoi."

 

“It’s probably good for both of us, to have to stretch our muscles after so long.” That doesn’t mean Solomon has to _like_ it, but it’s certainly better than listening to harp music day in and day out, waiting for another name to be called in the endless stream of men begging for his wisdom. “And I’m glad we came ourselves. Anyone else would have died back there, and we’d never have known about the threat until too late.”

 

"Mmn. True that," Yunan murmurs, his eyes lidding. That being said, he does rather miss his tower right about now. The beds in inns are never _squishy_ enough--well, at least Solomon makes an acceptable pillow. "I do hope I covered our tracks well enough so that we can surprise _them_ next them."

 

“Doubting yourself, Magi? I thought that was reserved for us lesser mortals.” Solomon closes his eyes, arm slowing in its caresses. “I can call up one of the djinn if you think it prudent, have it go investigate for us. I can’t imagine they’ll have anyone capable of dealing with that so efficiently. None of them summoned last time.”

 

"Well, I was a little _rushed_ ," he huffs, setting his teeth briefly to Solomon's shoulder in a put out nip. "But that's still unnecessary. Rest, you idiot. Your rukh still is a bit raw around the edges."

 

“Maybe I’ll dream of when you were a filthy bratty child who tried to ruin my life.”

 

"That's rude. I didn't have to _try_. I just laid down and wanted a nap."

 

Solomon laughs, inhales the scent of his beloved, and falls into dreams, his rukh uneasy and stirring still.


	9. Chapter 9

 

The door slams behind Alibaba with stark, echoing finality, and he stands outside of it for all of a moment, hands shaking before he clenches them into fists.

 

Belatedly, he thinks to wipe away the blood from his lip, feeling quickly forming bruises throb both there and on his hand. _Damn_ , but if punching Sinbad isn't like punching a brick wall. He deserved it, though. Balbadd is _his_ \--Sinbad promised that he would give it back to him two years ago once he was ready, and he's ready _now_. If he's not going to just give it back like he said he would, then why _shouldn't_ he take offers from elsewhere?

 

And Laem's Empress has made it so, _so_ difficult to refuse.

 

_It's not like we need Sindria anymore, anyway. Their resources are all elsewhere, so there's no reason to keep clinging to them._

 

"Aladdin!!" He _knows_ the Magi is around here somewhere. Last he checked, probably rolling around with Judal, but whatever. Alibaba scowls as he stalks down the hall, annoyed that his lip just won't stop _bleeding_. 

 

Aladdin stretches slowly, waking from a restless sleep to the sound of his name. He buries his face in Judal’s hair, gleefully smothering himself, spooning up against the other Magi. “Hmm? You say my name?” he asks sleepily, nuzzling against the back of Judal’s neck.

 

Judal cracks an eye open before sliding backwards, wriggling into the hard, comfortable line of Aladdin's body. "Mmn, nope. You feel really good, though," he sighs. "Good enough reason to wake up--"

 

"Aladdin!" The door slams open, and Alibaba flushes hot, trying not to lookat the sight on the bed. "Aladdin, come on, get up. We're going." 

 

Aladdin blinks up, yawning hugely, one arm thrown over Judal’s waist. “Alibaba? What are you doing here? Going where?” Hopefully not out of this room. Judal smells too nice in the morning to leave.

 

"Really rude," Judal mumbles, snuggling back into Aladdin a bit more. "Get out Fattybloba, I was happy before you showed up." 

 

Alibaba scowls, pointedly looking up at the ceiling. "We're going _home_ , Aladdin. Get your things, I want to leave in the next hour."

 

Aladdin sits up, suddenly apprehensive. “Your lip is bleeding.”

 

"Yeah, well, Sinbad hits hard."

 

Judal snorts out a laugh. "Sinbad hit you? You probably deserved it." He twists, grabbing for Aladdin's arm again. "You're not leaving, c'mon, lie back down." 

 

"No, we're definitely going back to Balbadd," Alibaba flatly says, his voice tight. "Come _on_." 

 

“Alibaba, what’s going on? Why did Sinbad hit you?” Aladdin’s hand runs down Judal’s arm, fingers twining together with Judal’s. Not ready, he’s not ready yet, Judal isn’t okay for him to leave right now. “Why do I have to leave?”

 

"Because we had a fight." In fact, he's half-expecting Sinbad to come after him and for this to be an outright djinn equip battle, what with how angry they both had been. "Look, I'll explain it all to you later. Just… let's just go, okay? I'm sick of Sindria."

 

"You're not leaving," Judal repeats, dropping his chin on top of Aladdin's shoulder as his own fingers tighten in a firm squeeze. 

 

"He is, we're _going_ \--"

 

"He doesn't have to listen to you."

 

Alibaba's jaw tenses at that. "He's _my_ Magi. Why don't you go calm your own king down and stay out of our business?" 

 

Something drops low and heavy into the pit of Aladdin’s stomach. He doesn’t _like_ that Alibaba has been fighting with Sinbad--but even less does he like that Alibaba thinks it’s okay to come into his room and tell him what to do, and talk about him like a possession. “I chose you,” he says, frowning. “I didn’t choose to become your servant. What did you and Sinbad fight about?”

 

"I didn't--" Alibaba exhales a long, exasperated sigh, raking a hand back through his bangs. "I didn't mean it like that. I just want you to come back to Balbadd with me--as my Magi, as my _friend_. We're not _welcome_ here anymore, Sinbad keeps trying to control what I'm doing with _my_ country so I'm done. I'm just… I'm done, and I told him so, and Laem keeps offering support if we need it so I'm going to take them up on that offer."

 

It’s been a long time since Aladdin has felt the slow burn of anger inside, a much longer time since it was directed at Alibaba. “What do you want me to do there?” he asks, fingers tightening. “The last time I went to Balbadd with you, you ignored everything I said for three years.”

 

"I--well, I was being stupid, I admit that," is Alibaba's earnest reply as he takes a step forward. "I want you by my side, Aladdin. I've never felt right without having you around, so I know between the two of us, we can really make Balbadd great again!"

 

Judal snorts, burying his face into the side of Aladdin's neck. "Stay." 

 

“But…” But Judal is in his arms, and even the memory of sitting at Alibaba’s side and begging, pleading with him to do things, to no avail is a bitter one. “I want to help _you_ become great. I believe in you, I always have--but are you sure you’re doing this for the right reasons?” _Me begging you for five years to become king doesn’t work, but one punch from Sinbad goads you into it? Is that the kind of king I want to serve?_

 

"It's for _Balbadd_ , Aladdin. Balbadd's people. _Our_ people." Alibaba sucks in a slow, calming breath. "I thought you'd be _happy_ that I wanted to finally step up and _do something_ , like I should have years ago."

 

“I am! Just…” Aladdin worries at his bottom lip. “Is Sindria Balbadd’s enemy?”

 

"… Well," Alibaba slowly answers, "its king certainly doesn't want me here right now." 

 

"Wow, good job," Judal can't bite back, scowling as he tightens his hold on Aladdin. "You're _not_ leaving." 

 

Aladdin swallows hard, looking from Judal to Alibaba and back again. Judal is...Judal is promises, and change, and more honest affection than he’d ever thought he’d find from a single person, and his teacher, and his love, and…

 

Alibaba is his first friend. Alibaba is his king. Alibaba is...home.

 

“Judal...he’s my king. You know more about being a Magi than I do.”

 

Judal's brow furrows immediately at that. "I--that--but _still_ ," he protests, sitting back a bit as he frowns. "You _promised_ that you'd stay here with me. Or at least that you wouldn't leave me again, you know you _can't_." 

 

“I don’t want to leave you!” Even now, Aladdin can see the distressed little fluttering of Judal’s rukh, and he runs a soothing hand down the other man’s side, calming it as he’s learned how. “I just... _can_ I say no to my king?” It’s a real question, no matter that Alibaba’s in the room.

 

"I… I don't know, it's not like I've ever really--"

 

"Why would you _want to?_ " Alibaba butts in, exasperated. "Aladdin, don't you remember the things that he did to us? How could you pick him--"

 

"Will you shut up for five seconds?" Judal snaps, grabbing tight to Aladdin's arms. "You can't leave me, you _can't_. I've been doing better but only because _you're_ here and if you leave again--"

 

“Alibaba…”

 

It hurts, to hear Alibaba talk like that, as if the last ten years haven’t even _happened_ , or that he still hates Judal so much he’d not even _care_ …

 

Still, Alibaba is his king. “Judal, could you come with me?”

 

Judal's face twists in open distress. "If Sinbad is angry with Alibaba, do you _really_ think he's going to let me go to Balbadd?"

 

"Look, just--sort all this out and meet me out by the port tonight when you're done," Alibaba sighs, turning back around to the door. " _I'm_ going back to Balbadd, so I'd _hope_ that my Magi would actually come with me." 

 

The second Alibaba is out of the room, Aladdin turns, burying his face in Judal’s shoulder. “I don’t want to leave you. Not even if Alibaba’s finally doing the right thing, I don’t want to leave you!”

 

"So _don't!_ " Judal's nails scrape over Aladdin's arms in his attempt to better wind his arms around the man's neck, clinging to him. "Stay here, you _know_ Sinbad won't make you leave! Even if he tries to, I can convince him to let you stay." 

 

Aladdin’s laugh is a little bitter. “I wish I could convince Alibaba of...anything. But...I can’t say no to him, can I? You’d know better than I would, but as his Magi don’t I have to obey him?”

 

A slow, helpless shake of his head follows. "I don't know," Judal admits. "I've never… I mean, it's not like Sinbad has ever asked me to do something that I had a problem with. We've fought before, but I guess I'm… kind of always the person that gives in, so…" 

 

“I don’t want to leave you.” It’s the same words again, but they feel like the only things that matter, and Aladdin’s hold is tight on Judal’s hair. “I...I need to take a walk. Will you be okay for a little while?”

 

Judal's hands tighten briefly, and he swallows down the little urge of panic, no matter how difficult it is. "… Yeah. Just-- _don't_ leave," he says again, slowly unwinding his arms as he sits back. "You promised. You're good at keeping promises."

 

 _I’m really not. I’ve only ever worried about it with you._ “I’ll be back,” he assures the other man, and gives him a quick, tight hug.

 

Judal slowly nods, releasing him as he sinks back into the mattress and curls himself up around Aladdin's pillow. "You better be." 

 

Maybe Judal and the others are on to something with wearing clothes. It seems like it would be easier somehow to walk and think if he had pockets to put his hands in. Now, his arms just hang listlessly by his side as he walks, turning everything over in his head, eventually finding his way to the throne room. Softly, not wanting to wake Yunan if he’s sleeping, he says, “I need help.”

 

One blue eye slowly cracks open, and Yunan shifts where he's curled amongst his ever-growing pile of pillows and loose feathers, peering over at Aladdin. "Ah. You've decided I'm worthy counsel now?" 

 

“You know more about being a Magi than anyone alive,” Aladdin points out. “I just want to know...what happens if a Magi defies his king? Apart from making his king upset.”

 

That brings Yunan a pause, his head tilting in open amusement. "Depends on what you're defying him about. I never had a reputation for being terribly obedient, myself. This concept that we're _servants_ … that's something new, more a product of Al-Sarmen's little games more than anything, I think." 

 

“He wants me to go back to Balbadd. He picked a fight with Judal’s king, and…” Aladdin cuts that off. “Never mind, you don’t even like Judal, you wouldn’t care.”

 

"… Fights between kings, huh." _Solomon, you're watching this and laughing, aren't you?_ "I don't like him," Yunan slowly agrees, "but that has little to do with this. No one ever wrote a law that said a Magi must obey his king's every word. It's a little insulting." 

 

“That’s what I thought,” Aladdin says, nodding, “But...what are we supposed to _do_ , anyway? Is it healing the land? Giving advice--because he never takes my advice? Fighting wars? Raising dungeons?” He spreads his hands, a little distraught. “No one ever told me what it is we’re supposed to do.”

 

"Yielding to their every word and fighting all of their wars is problematic--raising dungeons helpful, if they have the men that can conquer them… healing their lands, always a plus." Yunan props his chin upon the arm of the throne, eyes lidding. "If he won't listen to you, then that is his fault, not yours. One would think, if a king had any sense, he would listen to a powerful magician." 

 

“But maybe it’s my fault, because when I met him, I didn’t know anything at all. And…” Aladdin sighs, tugging on his own braid. “I’m not sure if I’m upset because he’s finally doing what I told him to for the wrong reasons, or because I don’t want to leave Judal when he’s in trouble.”

 

"Magi… don't really chose their kings incorrectly, at first; their kings can change, however, in a way that they don't always like," Yunan slowly answers. "But if you think he's going about this wrong, tell him as much. If he still won't listen, then maybe you should let him learn on his own. That being said… if this is more between going with your king or staying with your lover, you should think about your priorities." 

 

“I wish I could love my king like I love Judal, or like Judal loves Sinbad. Then there wouldn’t be any problems.” Aladdin sinks down to the ground, chin on his knees. “I told him, he didn’t listen. I think he might start a war and...I’ll have to fight against everyone I care about.”

 

"… Sounds like you've already made your mind up," Yunan points out as he curls himself back up into a ball. "Why are you asking me for advice when you already know what you want to do?" 

 

“Because I want to know what would happen.” Aladdin looks up, swallowing hard. “What if I don’t go with him? What if I tell him no?”

 

"Then you've told him 'no.'" The older Magi smiles, shrugging. "He'll get over it. Or he won't, sounds like a personal problem of his at that point." 

 

~~

 

Judal _tries_ not to be angry.

 

It's something easier said than done, the more he thinks about it. Aladdin _promised_ him--but then again, when has Aladdin ever been particularly good about keeping promises? _He always has with you_ , a little voice nags, but Judal tries to understand. It's for his king. That's why he left, that's the _only_ reason.

 

It doesn't make him any less lonely.

 

Kougyoku is a distraction, at least. So is Caius, though his interest wanes off and on after about a week. It isn't their fault. It's his own, and the odd, aching headaches, the constant, worried peering at his own rukh that isn't getting any whiter, any faster, and he fills ill at best, a constant, nauseous churning in his stomach that makes him feel far more content to huddle up in bed or a hot bath than anything else. 

 

Another week of it turns into a month, and he starts to get _scared_.

 

"There's something wrong with me." It's not the best way to start a conversation with one's king--or with anyone, for that matter. Flopping down onto the nearest piece of furniture _properly_ isn't exactly promising, either, though he feels too sick and cold to care--never _mind_ that it's the middle of the summer, and he should be anything but cold. 

 

With Judal, it’s always best not to assume anything.

 

So Sinbad doesn’t assume he’s talking about the way he’s been acting since Aladdin’s been gone, instead just abandoning his work (Ja’far can live with it) and reaching out a hand, cupping Judal’s face. “Are you ill? What’s the matter?”

 

Judal shivers, eyes lidded as he butts his head into Sinbad's hand, the warmth of it _nice_ against his clammy skin. "Dunno. Been having headaches… for like… weeks now." Ah. If he leans too far, he's going to fall off of the couch. "Can't keep anything down. Tried healing myself, doesn't go away… it feels like… like something's poking at me. Prickly little feet, everywhere. Don't like it. I think… think it's something in my rukh." He's too _tired_ to sound as panicky as he really is. 

 

“Something _in your_ _rukh_?” That doesn’t sound good at all, and Sinbad finds himself wishing he could see the fluttery little things the way Judal does, just to give him some help. “Maybe it’s stress from worrying about Aladdin?”

 

"Different." Judal's head shakes belatedly and he flops down again with a groan. "Leave me here to die. Why'd you and Alibaba have to fight anyway, huh? Then maybe… wouldn't've gotten so bad."

 

“You’re blaming _me_?” Sinbad asks, incredulous. “He’s the one that threw all my generosity back in my face the second he thought he didn’t _need_ me anymore.” He frowns, thinking. “Do you think you can fly? I’ll let you go to Balbadd for a few days if you think that would help.”

 

"No." Oh, yeah, he's definitely lightheaded the second he tries to sit up. "If my rukh keeps… doing this," Judal manages, grabbing a handful of Sinbad's robes to haul himself up into a sitting position. "Just--go ahead and kill me, before it goes all the way black. I don't know what else it could be _doing_ , other than that." 

 

Sinbad isn’t quite prepared for the sorrowful misery in Judal’s tone, and he makes a decision, scooping the Magi up into his arms. “I am _not_ going to let you die,” he mutters, tightening his hold. “I don’t care if you do go all the way black, you’re still my Magi, and I still love you. You don’t think I’d throw you aside like that, do you?”

 

"It's not a _matter_ of that--" He tries to raise his voice, but it just makes his head throb. _Ugh_. Judal makes a firm resolution _not_ to get sick, no matter how his world spins. "Gonna die anyway, if it goes black," he mutters, flopping limply into Sinbad's chest. "Just don't wanna fuck up anything else before I do. 's all I do… just keep messing stuff up for you… and everyone…" 

 

Sinbad is _warm_ , and he hasn't slept in what feels like days, and both of those things probably have a lot to do with his sudden trailing off and loss of consciousness. 

 

Sinbad thinks himself fairly good at not panicking in frightening situations. Excellent, in fact. At least, usually. With something like this--Judal showing up desolate and ill, then falling unconscious in his arms, the very real worry that _I might lose him_ is far too present.

 

_The hell I will._

 

Not now, not when they’ve both worked so hard to get here, and Sinbad makes a choice, hefting Judal properly up and carrying him to the throne room, and Yunan’s nest. “He’s ill,” he says, by way of introduction, trying to keep the worry out of his voice. “He says something’s wrong with his rukh. You know more than anyone, if there’s any help for him…” He looks up at Yunan, desperate. “I’ll do anything you want, just help him, please.”

 

Yunan's eyes open, peeking out over the edge of a blanket before he unwinds himself enough to actually look a semblance awake. "There's _always_ something wrong with his rukh," is his put-out mutter to follow. "I believe I said before that I'll have no part in whatever trouble he's caused for himself." 

 

Sinbad tries not to glare. It won’t help, anyway. “But this is _different_ , he said there was something in his rukh poking him! He’s never said that before, not even when it was all black. Please,” he adds, and it feels alien on his tongue to be _begging_ like this. “Just look at him.”

 

That _does_ make Yunan arch a brow, and he sighs, unfolding himself with a stretch to bother _looking_. 

 

It's rather impossible, keeping back an amused snort. "He'll survive," he dismissively retorts, curling himself back up. "Put him to bed, keep his fever down. I'm amazed this hasn't happened before, but then again, I suppose your own rukh is less than stable even now, isn't it, King Sinbad?" 

 

Sinbad blinks. That doesn’t _sound_ like Judal is dying immediately, which is a relief, to be sure. He looks up at Yunan, then down at Judal, then shrugs. “Later, will you explain? Once I’ve cared for him? I have no interest in talking to an enigmatic wall.”

 

The blankets sort of shrug, sending a few feathers fluttering around. "If you really want to know. If nothing else, you'll probably have a good laugh at it; I know I will."

 

Even if Yunan’s sense of humor is odd at best, it’s still a relief to hear him speak about the matter so casually. Sinbad nods, re-settling Judal in his arms, and carries the Magi to his bedroom, tucking him in and laying a cool cloth on his head before making his way back to the throne room. 

 

He settles in, half-sitting on one arm of his throne, about all he can manage when it’s quite so _nested_. “All right. Tell me, make me laugh.”

 

Yunan's head pokes out again, a mess of pale blond waves as it threatens to come mostly undone from his braids. "I've told you before, haven't I, how it's a poor decision for Magi to have children? Do you know why that is?" 

 

“I thought the babes would die,” Sinbad says, and he can’t quite resist the temptation to reach out, combing his fingers through Yunan’s loose braid, immediately starting to re-braid it. “Isn’t that what happened to Scheherazade, twenty times out of twenty-one?”

 

"Generally, yes. If they survive and are born into this world, they often die very young. And _that's_ because Magi aren't meant to reproduce on any physical level." His eyes lid, far from protesting the slide of Sinbad's fingers through his hair. "It's far more on a spiritual one, through our rukh." 

 

Sinbad’s hands pause, and he runs that last line past his mind again, seeing if he’d truly heard it properly. “That,” he says slowly, starting to braid again, “sounds like something they should really tell all baby Magi. And their kings.”

 

Yunan can't help but laugh. "It isn't exactly widely known," he amusedly replies, lips slowly curving. "Nor was it ever terribly common. There has to be a certain degree of compatibility… yours and Judal's, for instance--both far too unstable. A constant fluctuation like that can't produce anything. Also, you're thinking strictly in terms of _children_. You'd be lucky, for it to be an actual human child." 

 

Sinbad finishes the braid, then stands, raking his hands back through his hair, trying to process everything Yunan’s saying. “So...Judal is going to--his _rukh_ is somehow going to give birth? To some sort of….inhuman thing?”

 

"If he can withstand it." Yunan gives a languid shrug, pulling the braid over his shoulder to examine it. "It might be a baby. It might be a monster, or a storm, or a dozen of other things… there's no telling, really, until it's out, _especially_ if it's a thing born of two Magi."

 

Sinbad sighs, sinking down to sit on the floor at the foot of the throne. “You Magi should come with a book of instructions.” The more he thinks about it, the better that idea sounds. “How….he’s still male, isn’t he? How is he supposed to….how does it get _out_ , whatever it is?”

 

"You're still thinking in terms of the physical," Yunan mildly returns, stretching a foot down to poke Sinbad's head with it. "It's something born purely from the rukh, whatever it is. And whatever it is, it will just _appear_. You might have a hurricane, or another sea monster, or even something as simple as a bird."

 

At least Yunan’s feet are clean, and Sinbad sort of butts his head against the pale slender foot, turning to tweak one toe. “That doesn’t sound too bad,” he says hesitantly. “It’s...only two Magi? Or a Magi and….ah, it’s all very complicated. Have you ever done it?”

 

"… Only about fifteen times," is his dry retort to follow, toes wiggling. "With my king. Once, with another Magi. I think the latter is much less common…"

 

Sinbad runs a long finger up the sole of Yunan’s foot, grinning as it starts twitching and wriggling. “I forget you’re such an old man, you look so young. Will Aladdin be feeling ill too, assuming it’s his?”

 

Yunan half-heartedly growls, giving a little kick. " _Rude_. Of all people, I thought you would appreciate not being reminded of one's age. And I doubt that, but it might appear to him, whatever it is." 

 

Sinbad laughs, catching Yunan’s ankle and pressing a kiss to it. “Good to remember. It’s….is it a love thing? A sex thing? Does it take nine months?”

 

"It's a rukh thing," is the 'simple' reply, and Yunan lets his leg flop down once more. "Sex helps. A person's rukh does tend to be more active in times like that… as for the rest, not necessarily. It could take nine days or nine years, it's all arbitrary."

 

“It _would_ be unknowable and obnoxious,” Sinbad sighs. “Why did you say my rukh is too unstable? I’d thought it’s been constant for some years now.”

 

"A mere _human's_ rukh is hardly suited for carrying around even a speck of black," Yunan answers, his head tipping over the arm of the throne. "And yours had quite a bit more than that for some time… it still does, even, even if it hardly increases these days. Why, are you having fantasies of making lovely little children with your pet now?"

 

“Hmm? Ah, no,” Sinbad says with a laugh, tugging on the end of Yunan’s braid. “I’ve children enough. You just made me worry that it had started doing something without my knowledge.” His head tilts as he thinks. “If you had many of these...occurrences….how old would they be now?”

 

Yunan's head tilts, contemplative. "Very old. Some are sea monsters still roaming about, others storms long past… a few daughters and sons, all long dead, undoubtedly."

 

Sinbad grimaces. “Sorry for asking. I hope you won’t take a few sea monsters defeated as any sort of vendetta against their race.”

 

"Hardly. If they stir up trouble, then they have to deal with what comes of it," Yunan sniffs, giving Sinbad's cheek a poke with one slender toe. "Besides, most of them aren't around here. You'd be hardpressed to ever see one." 

 

The kind of strength that comes form having lived so long--Sinbad can see it in Yunan now, the way he hadn’t been able to as a teenager. “You’ve seen everything, haven’t you?” he asks, a bit deferentially for once. “But you still care. I admire that.”

 

"… Where's this coming from?" Yunan bemusedly replies. "For the record, I haven't seen _everything_. Just a great many things."

 

“Things a normal human could never dream of seeing,” Sinbad counters. “Things a mere mortal like me could never hope to see.” He relaxes back against the throne, sighing. “When I met you, I didn’t understand. How powerful you were, how old. Why did you waste your time on a scrap like me?”

 

"Truthfully? I thought you were _him_ , reborn." A wistful sigh follows, and Yunan flops back. "I felt your birth, and followed you to your country… disappointing, really, that you weren't Solomon, but you were still something different."

 

“I feel like I should apologize for not being him,” Sinbad says, a little awkwardly. “But…” He shrugs, looking around his palace, built by his own two hands and the labors of his body. “I don’t think I’ve done too poorly for myself, being just me.”

 

"Oh, I didn't mean to offend you," Yunan brightly replies, reaching down to pat the top of Sinbad's head. "I rather like you, and your country. You remind me of him still, even if you're a bit more of an idiot." 

 

Sinbad grins unapologetically, butting his head into Yunan’s touch. “But that’s the price I pay for being this handsome. I have it on good authority.”

 

"Who told you that? Solomon was _very_ handsome, and not quite as foolish. Well, he was at first," Yunan muses, ruffling Sinbad's hair. "But he was really quite a baby then."

 

“Ah, but he was given the gift of wisdom, wasn’t he?” Sinbad counters, even as he grins, leaning into Yunan’s hand. “How can a mere mortal compete?”

 

"Fair enough, and that's why I like you," Yunan sighs, smiling in spite of himself. "Also, I happen to think you're cute. And less bossy. Solomon could be very bossy."

 

“I’m very harmless,” Sinbad assures him. “And cleaner than a dog.”

 

"'Harmless' I doubt, though cleaner than a dog I can actually believe." 

 

Sinbad shrugs. “I take no pleasure in bloodshed. In this world, I think that’s about as close to harmless as a man can get. Besides, I thought you liked it when I was dirty.”

 

"Depends on what sort of dirty," Yunan drawls. "Though you do remind me of a big dog, the more I think about it." 

 

“But I can be trained not to shake all over priceless furniture after a bath,” Sinbad points out cheerfully. “Ja’far says I’m not quite as hopeless as a dog in that way.”

 

"Oh, then you're better than me! What a good dog," Yunan cheerfully replies, rubbing the top of Sinbad's head again.

 

Sinbad grins, laying his head on Yunan’s thigh. “And are you a good master? I can be _very_ well-behaved.”

 

"Uh huh. I bet you say that to everything pretty that shows up and sits on your throne, hmm?" Yunan shifts around, lazily draping a long, lean leg over Sinbad's shoulder. 

 

“Hmm, not really.” Sinbad nestles against the inside of a thigh now, looking up through his lashes at Yunan. “I’m usually told I require _discipline_.”

 

"… And you called me a slut," the Magi replies, infinitely amused as he reaches down, scooping up a handful of Sinbad's hair to lightly tug. "I thought you said you were well-behaved. I guess that's a lie." 

 

“I said I _can_ be. When I think it’ll be...appreciated.” Sinbad’s eyes half-close at the tug to his hair, and he leans against it, inching closer between Yunan’s thighs. “Would you prefer that?”

 

"I'm starting to wonder." Yunan wriggles, sinking back into the pile of feathery pillows, his legs spreading a bit more as his breath hitches. "Though… I bet you'd like being _very_ well-behaved for me, wouldn't you, _Your Majesty?_ "

 

Sinbad nuzzles his way up the inside of one thigh, then rubs his cheek up between Yunan’s legs, feeling the half-hard bulge starting to grow. “Maybe. I bet you’d be good at….keeping me in line.” He opens his lips, mouthing over the hot swell of Yunan’s cock through his leggings.

 

There _is_ something alluring about having the King of the Seven Seas kneeling between his legs, all too eager to be his dog. Yunan hums, his breath a hitching thing as he grabs at Sinbad's hair with one hand, and reaches down to pull his hardening cock free with the other. "Not that it takes much," he breathlessly taunts, rubbing the head of his cock against Sinbad's lips. "You're practically begging for this." 

 

“Am begging,” Sinbad moans out, liking the way Yunan’s breath jumps, the way his cock gets hard so fast, and he can’t help but wonder what other games this Magi played with his king long ago. The ones he’s stumbled on so far have been _fun_. He lets his lips fall open, looking up at Yunan as he tries to close his mouth around the tip of that pretty cock, licking his lips for a taste. “Please…”

 

"You beg like a whore," Yunan sighs out, eyes lidded as he casually leans back, a sharp pull on Sinbad's hair dragging his head forward, the head of his cock pressing against his lips before slipping inside to rub against that slick, hot tongue. "Go on, then. If you want to be a dog, then please your master like a well-trained one."

 

Sinbad is all too eager to obey, closing his lips around the head and sucking, letting his tongue drag over it as he lowers his head as well as he can. A low shiver rakes up his back at the yank to his hair, making him shove his own head down harder, knowing he must look like the whore Yunan names him, on his knees, sucking off a man on his own throne and making low, obscene noises in his throat while he does. It’s probably worse, that he’s so _hard_.

 

Yunan forgoes praise--far more fun is yanking harder on that ponytail Sinbad has, dragging his head down as his hips lazily arch up, shoving himself down the king's throat. Judging by how Sinbad _shivers_ , he much prefers it this way, anyway, and Yunan lets a foot slide down, tracing one muscled thigh before dipping between his legs, tracing the hard line of Sinbad's cock with his toes. "This hard, just from sucking me off?" Slowly, he grinds his heel in. "If you're good, maybe I'll let you rut against my foot until you come."

 

Sinbad’s eyes roll back into his head at the first press of that foot, and he groans low and urgent around Yunan’s cock, sloppy sucks all he can manage when he shoves himself down again and again, hips rutting forward against Yunan’s foot. The tug to his hair isn’t helping, not when he’s already feeling like such a whore on his knees, every slick, lewd slide of Yunan’s cock past his lips making him feel more used and filthy, making him that much harder.

 

Fortunately for him, Sinbad is being _very_ good. 

 

Yunan shivers hard, giving into the urge to sink both hands down into Sinbad's hair, kneading close to his scalp as if he really were petting a beloved dog before he drags him forward, his hips jerking up to press his cock down that slick, hot throat as deep as he can, until Sinbad's nose presses into the soft skin of his belly. "You really… like being used, don't you?" Yunan breathes, eyes lidded as he grinds against the king's face, his foot shoving down between his legs. "Better than being a king, maybe you should have just been a concubine." 

 

It’s been a long, long time since anyone’s talked to Sinbad like that.

 

He hadn’t realized how much he’s _missed_ it.

 

A low, confident voice telling him how good he is, what a perfect whore, how fit for the life of an oiled harem boy he’d have been, strong hands sitting him on his knees or slapping him into his place, a hard thick cock stuffing him full--

 

It’s been a _long_ time. 

 

The noise that comes out of Sinbad’s mouth is strangled as he sucks hard on Yunan’s cock, curling his tongue around it before letting it slide down his throat again, using him hard and _thorough_ , and when he looks up at Yunan again there are tears spilling from his eyes.

 

Yes, Sinbad is _definitely_ being good. Yunan sucks in a sharp, ragged breath, and it takes nearly everything in his power to tighten his fingers and pull Sinbad _off_ of his cock. "I think," he pants out, the slick, dripping head of his cock smearing over one flushed cheek, "you like this just a little too much. Maybe I should let you be a pretty whore more often." 

 

It doesn't take _much_ with that line of thought. Yunan shudders, dragging Sinbad's face forward to better rut against the side of it as he spills, slick and messy and dripping over the king's cheeks and lips, clinging even to his eyelashes as he rocks forward, his heel grinding down between Sinbad's legs with every motion. 

 

The _feel_ of Yunan coming on his face, the _look_ on Yunan’s face as he does, the fact that he’s a slick, sticky, dripping _whore_ at the foot of his own throne is too much, and Sinbad licks his lips for the barest taste before his whole body shakes. He can’t remember ever coming so hard, rutting up against the bottom of Yunan’s foot, his face a mess, making shuddering, needy little cries as he spills, sagging down to his knees with a groan. “You should definitely,” he gasps, flicking his tongue out again, “do that more often.”

 

"Well, now that I know you _like_ that sort of thing…" Yunan breathes, sagging back with a heavy, pleased exhale, and blowing a sweat-soaked strand of hair out of his face. "Solomon and I," he begins fondly, swiping a thumb affectionately over the mess on Sinbad's cheek, "used to play a similar game. Though I was his concubine… and there were others, where I pretended to not quite want it." 

 

Sinbad reaches out a hand, bringing Yunan’s thumb to his mouth and closing his lips around it, sucking softly until it’s quite clean before letting it go. “I’ve played similar games,” he admits, “and enjoyed them, but….well, the one I was playing with was no good at pretending.”

 

"Ahh, that's no fun, then." Yunan's fingertips softly brush against Sinbad's mouth, rather enjoying the stickiness still lingering there. "I'll have you know I'm a very convincing actor, no matter my role." 

 

Sinbad raises an eyebrow. “Any game you have in mind? I think you’ll find me up to the challenge.” He grins, flicking his tongue out over Yunan’s fingers. “I’ve been told my lack of inhibitions is refreshing.”

 

"That's certainly true," Yunan murmurs, a smile on his lips as he wriggles his fingers. "I think I'll stay a bit longer to enjoy that. I'm sure between the two of us, we can get… creative." 

 

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

~Many Months Prior~

 

Balbadd _steams_ in the summer. 

 

It always has a tendency to steam year round, but in the summer, even Judal finds himself feeling as though he is swimming through the air. Especially near the coast, the heavy fog and humidity at night and early morning makes him far more inclined to lie about naked on a bed of muslin than anything else, with even a bowl of fruit nearby a chore to reach for. 

 

All in all, Balbadd is _good_ , though. 

 

The stress of Sindrian things is nowhere to be found--even less than he would expect, considering Alibaba isn't here and trying to desperately win Sinbad's favor in one way or another. The governor appointed to this place wants nothing to do with him or Aladdin, and that suits Judal just fine when he wants to do nothing but sleep and eat and fuck in the aftermath of wars and other stressful things (like having what feels like eyes plastered on him at all times, staring at him and watching his every move). 

 

He had tried to hide it from Aladdin at first--moot point, and of course, Judal had felt like an idiot afterwards. The little bits of black rukh peek out at the worst of times, not inclined to be controlled (just as he'd remembered), and Judal had reluctantly admitted they had been there for awhile, ever since that failed attempt with Baal.

 

It's just _recently_ that the feeling of being watched has started, though, and Judal hasn't decided if he should say something yet or not. 

 

 _Not_ , Judal decides for the day, sighing as he finally summons the strength to roll over and snag a peach. He's already ruined a great number of things. This day needn't be one of them. 

 

Aladdin wakes late, like he does in Balbadd. There’s no reason to rise early when everything is so _nice_ here, and all the old women and advisors tell him he’s doing enough just by being around. Aladdin likes the old women, even if their boobs have a lot more skin than the young women. They feed him a lot more, so that makes up for it. 

 

Most importantly, Judal usually sleeps late, and that means Aladdin doesn’t have to wake up cold, or leave Judal to be cold. He stretches out, feet hanging off the edge of the bed, and throws an arm around Judal’s waist. He’s awake, of course, and worrying like he always does lately. That stresses Aladdin out, but privately he thinks it’s nothing a little time in the sun and away from Sindria won’t cure. Sindria had been...stressful, last time. Everything had been stressful, back then, and only now are they really getting a chance to get away from it.

 

Instead of saying “good morning,” Aladdin gives Judal’s shoulder a soft bite from behind.

 

Judal muffles a noise into his peach, taking a solid bite from it before he chews, swallows and flops backward against Aladdin with a huff. "Morning," he offers around a yawn, twisting slightly to shove the peach against Aladdin's mouth to offer him a bite as well. "Imports don't taste as good as homegrown, I think. Make sure your not-king plants peach trees here, if you ever want me to visit this place again." 

 

Aladdin bites, and chews happily, juice sliding down his face. “I’ll tell him, once he’s done with his plans for the slums,” he promises seriously. Then he curls his arms around Judal’s waist, rubbing the peach juice off on his neck, then licking that from Judal’s skin. “I think I have some good ideas about making you come visit anyway. Joodly Joo tastes good.”

 

"That nickname won't make me come visit," Judal complains, letting the half-eaten peach roll away as he snuggles back all the same, tilting his head back to lick a stripe underneath Aladdin's skin. Imports _apparently_ taste better when on Aladdin, he thoughtfully muses, licking his lips. "It's Judal. Juuuudal."

 

“Juuuuuuuuudally Joo,” Aladdin agrees, leaning over to lick peach juice off of Judal’s lips. “Judal is Judal, but sometimes Judal seems like more of a Joodally thing.” He rolls over, enough that he can bury his face in Judal’s neck, nibbling. “Joodally things taste good.”

 

"You're being duuuumb, I'm not Joodally." It's weird to even say his name like that, though it's harder to be annoyed when Aladdin's got his face in his neck and is nibbling on him like he really does taste delicious. Judal sighs, wriggling and rolling over to flop himself atop Aladdin instead, rather pleased with himself for getting Aladdin on his back. "J-u-d-a-l. Not Joodle. Or however it is that you say it," he half-heartedly grumps, snapping his teeth against Aladdin's chin. "I'll bite it out of you."

 

“Mmkay!” Aladdin agrees happily, wriggling under Judal’s weight. He’s always so _warm_ , so nice-smelling, so pliant and strong and wiggly. He frowns, trying to reach up, and drags his fingernails lightly down the back of Judal’s tanned back instead. “Hmm, I can’t bite you so easy like this. And Joodly things taste so good. You’ll have to make it up to me.”

 

A little, grumbling noise escapes at the _Joodly_ part--Aladdin doesn't listen, he's doing this on purpose, and people say _he's_ the brat!--though Judal doesn't think about it for very long, not when Aladdin sets his nails to him and that makes him arch and sigh and wiggle more on top of him. "Yeah? Like how?" Judal grins, nudging his nose underneath Aladdin's chin, parting his lips to scrape his teeth down his throat before biting again and sucking. "Shouldn't have to make up anything if you keep calling me Joodly… Joodally… whatever, _things_."

 

Aladdin beams at him, bringing a leg up between Judal’s thighs, relishing the heat and soft firmness of his skin. “Joodly things are nice. They lay on me and taste good and make my rukh feel all swirly.” He starts to roll them over, but Judal is being heavy on purpose, so he gives up, grabbing at Judal’s ass instead. “You should taste me like peaches,” he suggests, eyes lidding. “I like tasting myself in your mouth.”

 

Aladdin has _nice_ hands. They're not particularly large like Sinbad's, but he has really long, elegant fingers that feel especially good when they're clawing down his back, or right now, kneading and grabbing and making him sigh out a hot breath against Aladdin's neck. "You taste really good," Judal agrees, pressing another, open-mouthed kiss to Aladdin's shoulder before he wriggles down, taking his time to enjoy the slide of bare flesh before he ends up nuzzling at the jut of Aladdin's hip, and down the inside of one thigh. "You sure swirly's the word?" he murmurs, tilting his head to press a wet, lingering kiss to the tip of Aladdin's cock. "Usually, your rukh just gets all _pink_." 

 

“Joodly things make me feel all pink too,” Aladdin says sagely, wriggling his legs apart to let Judal position himself between them. Ah, he looks _good_ there, and even if his teeth are sharp, he’s usually pretty good about only biting in good, fun places and ways. “Sometimes it’s swirly when it’s pink.” He reaches out a hand, and Judal’s rukh pulses against his own, mostly white, flecked with bits of black here and there. Aladdin catches one dark one, pinching it between his fingers, and blows on it until it lightens up a bit, the dark washing off like soot. It darkens again as soon as it leaves his fingers, but _not_ all the way to black as it had been.

 

Judal bites back a few choice _that's not going to do anything, quit it_ and variations of, all in favor of dragging his tongue hot and slick from the tip of Aladdin's cock down the underside of it, huffing out a soft breath as he does. It's funny the odder colors that rukh will change--pink, in this case, is sort of cute, and he can see the swirly (yes, _swirly_ ) gradients of it, turning pinker by the minute with every swipe and lap of his tongue. "You _do_ taste good," Judal murmurs, pleased that this is a good reminder of such a thing, and a low, rumbling groan echoes in his throat as he sucks the head of Aladdin's cock into his mouth, slowly letting him slide further along his tongue.

 

Aladdin’s hips roll slowly up, rocking shallowly into Judal’s mouth, feeling the searing, pressing slick heat of Judal’s tongue against his cock, a pleased little shiver raking through him. His hands slide into Judal’s hair, a whispered word of magic unbinding it from the braid so he can properly touch and scratch and hold, nails prickling into his skull. “Joodly things are good like that,” he murmurs, spreading his legs farther to wrap one lazily around Judal’s waist. “What does it taste like?”

 

Judal releases Aladdin's cock with a slick, wet pop, breath hitching as he butts his head up briefly into the other Magi's hands. "You're really _sweet_ ," he mumbles, a little mystified by it no matter how many times he's had Aladdin's taste lingering on his tongue. There's a hint of that musky, masculine taste, but it's faint and barely noticeable, especially when everything is so sweet and Aladdin always smells so _good_. Judal sighs, eyes lidding as he gives the head another eager swipe of his tongue before his fingers splay over Aladdin's hips, loosely curling there as Judal works to take more of him into his mouth, an eager moan muffled in his throat. 

 

God, there’s something intoxicating about the way Judal sucks cock. He doesn’t do it like most of the ladies Aladdin has known, wanting to show off, always looking up through lashes and trying to see if Aladdin is turned on, if he’s _excited_. Judal just does what he loves, licking and sucking and slurping as if he’s hungry for it, and Aladdin can’t even move, not with the way Judal’s holding his hips down. That’s fine; Judal’s actions are so much better, more intoxicating than anything he’d feel by grabbing Judal’s face and sliding in and out, and he slides back with a soft, pleased sigh. “No one is as good at this as Judal,” he murmurs, forgetting to give him a silly nickname when Judal’s being _so_ good to him.

 

Hearing Aladdin's compliments always make his rukh flutter and twist happily, and it makes Judal all the more eager to taste everything he can, especially when Aladdin is shivering and his cock is leaking all over his tongue. His eyes flutter as he swallows him down further, his own cock throbbing between his legs when he finally takes Aladdin in to the root, nose nudging into his stomach. Judal knows (loves) that he looks like some harlot as he sucks and licks at Aladdin, cheeks hollowing as he pulls up with a hard suck, his hands dragging up to splay over Aladdin's ribs. 

 

Aladdin’s whole body goes shivery, his rukh fluttering and whirling around Judal when he’s thoroughly engulfed. His hips twitch up, unable to help himself when Judal is so _good_ at this, so determined and eager and talented with that tongue, dragging it over his cock with every little movement of his breath. His hands clench, too tight in Judal’s hair, but it’s difficult to remember limits when Judal is so _good_. “Is Judal going to drink it all?” he asks, breathlessly excited, eyes shining as he looks down at the man nestled between his legs.

 

An eager, wet moan is quick to follow, and Judal nods as much as he can, pulling back just enough to let Aladdin's cock slide along his tongue rather than simply be buried down his throat. Judal wants to _taste him_ more than anything, especially with those hands grabbing so tight at his hair, with the way Aladdin shudders and bucks underneath him--all because of _him_. 

 

Judal is really unfair. Aladdin whispers as much, eyes sliding shut before he snaps them open again, wanting to watch the way Judal moves his lips and tongue and everything, as entranced by the sight of it as he is of Judal’s skills. His hands curl in Judal’s hair, and then there’s a sharp, eager gasp before the tension snaps, and Aladdin forgets all thoughts of watching when pleasure bursts in his head, coursing down his spine and out to his extremities, picking him up and shaking him like a tornado as he spills over Judal’s tongue.

 

Judal isn't _neat_ about it. He rarely is anyway, and with Aladdin, he sees no reason to be, when they both like it when it's messy and everywhere and that makes it more _fun_. Judal's groan is caught in his throat, a low, rumbly thing as he slurps and swallows, drawing back and releasing Aladdin's cock with a last, messy lap of his tongue before he squirms his way up, grabbing at Aladdin's hair to haul him up into a kiss that's just as messy, _sticky_ from the come still lingering on his lips and tongue. 

 

Aladdin’s just as eager, rolling to the side to better twine his arms and legs with Judal’s, every part of him overheated and oversensitive, tasting himself on Judal’s tongue with slow, easy licks to his mouth. “Mm,” he murmurs, stretching out, eyes half-lidded. “You’re right. It is sweet.” He laughs softly, licking up a spilled drop on Judal’s chin. “Joodly things are messy.”

 

"You like it," Judal sighs out, wriggling forward with a slow, hitching breath to let his cock rub lazily against Aladdin's stomach. He flops his arms forward, throwing them around Aladdin's back as he wriggles close, raking his nails slowly down the other Magi's spine. "Hurry up and get it up agaaaain, want you in me." 

 

Aladdin laughs, still oversensitive and woogly from the force of his last orgasm. “C’mere,” he murmurs, dipping his fingers into a jar of sesame oil they keep by the bed, trailing a slick finger down the small of Judal’s back. “Let me play with you back here for a little while, I like the faces you make.”

 

"Mmnn, that's fine, too." Judal rubs his face into the crook of Aladdin's neck, shivering and biting down as he arches his back just at the _promise_ of those long fingers inside of him. "Like it when you slide 'em in really deep," he sighs, lurching up to catch the lobe of one ear and bite and suck on it. "Always feels really good."

 

Aladdin shivers at the drag of Judal’s teeth, the familiar ache of wanting to go again already and not _quite_ being there yet warring in his body. He arches down, finds the position difficult, and nudges Judal up a bit until he can comfortably slide two fingers into him, slick and easy with the oil. Judal is so _hot_ inside, clenching and twitching around his fingers, and Aladdin makes a little approving noise in his throat. “Joodly things feel good inside,” he murmurs, and licks Judal’s shoulder absently. “Are you really hard?” Not like he can’t feel it against his thighs, but ah, he likes hearing Judal say dirty things.

 

The first, slick slide of those fingers inside of him makes Judal _mewl_ , the sound catching and breaking a little in his throat as his back arches sharply. "Ahh… really hard," he breathlessly answers, hips twitching forward to rub his cock against Aladdin, hard enough to be dripping now and leaving a slick, sticky mess as he grinds forward. His hands clutch up into Aladdin's hair, mussing and loosening his braid as he slowly rocks against Aladdin's hand. "K..keep that up, and I dunno if I can wait…" 

 

“Sure you can.” Aladdin’s voice is easy, confident, and he lips a quick kiss against Judal’s neck as he slides his fingers in and out. They don’t really need to do this first, not with how good Judal is at taking his cock a few times every day, but Aladdin likes watching the faces Judal makes when he’s writhing, and it’s a lot more distracting when he’s buried inside the other Magi.

 

Oh, well. Sacrifices are important.

 

Hard now, at least most of the way, Aladdin pulls out his fingers with a wet little noise, dipping his fingers back into the jar to coat his cock. He rolls, getting Judal on his back, knowing he’ll say something if he wants it some other way. Long blue hairs trail down, brushing over Judal’s chest, and Aladdin beams down at him. “You’re going to be really good,” he breathes, and pushes in, nice and fast to give Judal the shock he knows he loves.

 

Judal flops back, surrendering in an instant, and god, he's _glad_ when he does.

 

Aladdin's cock always feels so good inside of him that it's almost painful, and Judal's eyes roll back, cock _aching_ when Aladdin sinks inside him, slick and hot and fast and leaves his breath hiccuping in his chest as his legs splay wide and trembling. "I-- _ah_ … f-fuck," he inelegantly swears, huffing out a hot, ragged breath as he desperately reaches a hand down, curling his fingers tightly at the base of his own cock, squeezing hard to keep himself from just giving in and coming right then and there. A broken, needy whine leaves his throat all the same, and Judal bites his lip as he ruts down, skin flushed and eyes a little unfocused. "Please please _please_ \--"

 

Aladdin’s eyes are bright, cheeks flushed when he buries his head in Judal’s neck, inhaling deeply. Judal smells _so_ good, spicy and dark and fruity, and Aladdin nibbles a bit as he slides out, laving the area with his tongue when a quick, solid thrust brings him back in far enough that he hears a _slap_. “I know you like being really full,” he breathes in Judal’s ear, urging Judal’s legs farther apart still. “I like it when I make you so full you can’t breathe.”

 

Judal _writhes_ , his back a tight, trembling arc when he sets his heels to the bed, just that little bit of leverage making it much, much easier to buck down and practically ride every long, hard thrust of Aladdin's cock inside of him. The _stretch_ is what makes his vision go spotty, his hands claws as they drag down Aladdin's back, digging in and clinging, and every word from Aladdin's tongue makes heat twist tighter and hotter still in his belly. "Really… really love it," he mindlessly agrees, breath hitching and catching in his throat. He whines a little, trying to rub his cock up against the firm lines of Aladdin's body above him, but he can't think, isn't quite coordinate enough right then, and ah, god, just squirming around almost feels even _better_. 

 

Aladdin arches up, not even letting Judal rub against him, focusing on every slick, hard drive of his cock into Judal’s body. Only with Judal can he go so many times so fast--they’d done it three times before falling asleep in the first place--and he takes his time, shivering eagerly at the claws Judal makes down his back. “You don’t need to,” he murmurs, rocking his hips into Judal, going faster, smoother, _deeper_ with each thrust. “I bet you can do it just because you like me in you so much, right?” He leaves a bruising kiss on Judal’s jawline, inaccurately aimed but sharp and rough nonetheless.

 

Judal _thinks_ he agrees out loud. That might have been a whine, though, or even just a breathless, huffing moan of assent, complete with a nod of his head that might have also been a shake and oh, _god_ , Aladdin feels so good when he shoves in deep like that, everything slick and hot and making him turn to a shivery mess all the way down to his toes. 

 

He sort of gives up after that. 

 

He comes _hard_ , his attempts for breaths heavy, hiccuping gasps as he spills. Aladdin is _right_ , of course--he always is. Judal doesn't need another touch to his cock to come this hard, especially not when Aladdin is in him, spreading him wide, stuffing him so full that _he can't breathe,_ and he's left a whimpering, trembling mess as he sags down into the bed, still clinging to Aladdin's back.

 

This time, Aladdin doesn’t so much shatter as he does slide easily into a ripple of pleasure, like swimming through cold water only to find a spot warmed by the sun. It shivers through him, fast enough that he doesn’t even remember to pull out so Judal can be nice and messy the way he loves, spilling inside him with a happy, contented little moan. 

 

He’s slow to pull out, and rubs his face against Judal’s neck, reaching a finger down to circle the sore, dripping hole. “Mmm, you still feel really nice here,” he murmurs, settling himself happily on top of the other Magi. “You achy? Or just floppy and good?”

 

"Gooood," is the groan to follow, even as Judal twitches and lurches up a bit from that teasing touch, oversensitive and still trembling even now. He gives Aladdin a solid squeeze, his head lolling back with a long sigh. "You're good. Really good. I keeps."

 

“Good. I like being...keeped.” Aladdin forgets about grammar, burrowing into Judal’s shoulder and stretching out. “I don’t really care that it’s afternoon. I just want to sleep and eat with you today. Alibaba’s busy anyway.”

 

"Mmnn… is it already afternoon?" Judal sleepily attempts, lifting his head briefly to look out through the window and at the sun absolutely pouring in. "Guess it is. Then let's just sleep," he agrees, worming himself closer to throw a leg over Aladdin's hip. 

 

In theory, it's a good plan.

 

What _isn't_ good, though, is waking up drenched in a cold sweat, his heart pounding, his vision blurring and wet. The worst part is not being able to pinpoint _why_ for a moment, not until he looks dazedly out through the still-open window, the night sky pouring into their room now with the glitter of stars the only thing to light it--

 

_Al-Sarmen's dismissal of him, not even angry, simply uncaring--Kouen's turned back, the way he ushered all of his siblings and cousins away--the look of scorn on every face he stumbled upon when he fled Kou, the way he knew for certain there was no one, absolutely no one that would help him unless--_

 

Remembering _that_ now, of all times?

 

Judal shudders, sinking down into the bed, his face turning to bury itself into a pillow. He doesn't want to _see_ the dark flutter of his rukh that swells up stronger still when he's stressed, and now, with a dream ( _nightmare_ ) like that, there's no helping it. _It shouldn't be black again, not after all of this, I didn't_ do _anything._  

 

_The look on Ja'far's face when he showed up within Sindria, the way his heart thudded in his chest all the way up to his throat when he saw Sinbad again, and even after everything else, Sinbad told Ja'far to stop, to not kill him, and let him stay--_

 

Ah.

 

Aladdin knows this mood.

 

It’s been a long time since Judal has been this upset, not with him around. It’s hard not to make a distressed little noise; Judal is worse when he’s stressed too, so the best thing to do is just be the warm and solid friend he can talk to, he thinks.

 

Gently, Aladdin wraps his arms around Judal, stroking a soothing hand down his arm to try and calm the rukh if nothing else. “I have nightmares sometimes, too,” he says softly.

 

Judal starts, jolting out of his thoughts (memories, more like) abruptly as he suddenly remembers Aladdin is _there_. That's the only reassuring thing that he can focus on in times like these, though it's a fleeting thing, especially when his mind wraps back around to _Aladdin wasn't always there, he wasn't there before when they just brushed me aside._

 

He slowly lists to the side, butting his head into Aladdin's shoulder with a shuddering breath. _But never about no one wanting you_ is on the tip of his tongue, barely bitten back.

 

Aladdin curls them both into his body, sheltering with his arms, his back, his hair, his breath. “It’s fine to be scared of being lonely,” he murmurs, arms closing tightly around Judal. “Just so you remember that I’m here and I want you to be here with me forever, okay?”

 

A wet laugh follows that. "Does your Solomon thingy let you creepily read minds or something?" he mumbles, curling up into the tiniest ball that he can. "Or are you just better at reading rukh than I am?" It's probably both. Maybe he's a good magician, but Judal doubts he's ever been good at being a _Magi_. Aladdin's sort of the opposite. 

 

Aladdin squeezes Judal, just tighter than is probably comfortable. “I don’t think either, really. I just don’t know anything else there is to be afraid of. Any time I’ve been scared, it’s of being lonely.” _And I wished you were there, even before I knew who you are._

 

Judal doesn't so much as let out a grumble of protest at being squeezed. "It's less the lonely part that bugs me," he quietly, eventually admits, "and more the whole… process of getting to that point. People leaving or kicking me out, stuff like that… that's a lot worse." 

 

“People can be really cold,” Aladdin agrees, burying his face in the back of Judal’s neck. “And then there are some people you can’t get rid of even if you try. And then there are Joodly people.”

 

"What's a Joodly people, then?" Judal mumbles, twisting around to flop a leg over Aladdin possessively. "I dunno if being Joodly is good or not."

 

“It’s a really good thing,” Aladdin assures him, burrowing harder as if to make up for everyone who ever hasn’t. “It means you have a sweet taste and clingy hands and you’re great at magic and you’d taste good baked into a pie and I’m a little hungry.”

 

"I don't wanna get baked into a pie, though." The silliness of it _does_ make him relax a bit all the same, and Judal wriggles to reach over Aladdin and grab another peach from the bedside, stuffing it against Aladdin's mouth. "Joodly pie would be gross, I think…"

 

“Needs berries,” Aladdin decides, taking a bite and chewing slowly. “Joodleberry pie sounds delicious.”

 

Judal stares at him, eyes lidded. "You're a weirdo."

 

“Really?” Aladdin, unfazed, takes another bite. “You told me I was sweet earlier. That’s the same thing as wanting to eat you in a pie, right?”

 

"Umm, no, that's just a little weird," Judal tells him without blinking, idly leaning in to take a bite from the other side of the peach. "Don't eat me. Not _really_."

 

“Okay. Keep feeding me peaches, then,” Aladdin agrees cheerfully. “Plus with you all curly and cute, I can eat you over and over again.” In demonstration, he takes a slow bite to Judal’s neck.

 

"That's _distracting_ \--'m trying to be upset about things," Judal bemoans, slumping forward and deliberately grinding the half-eaten peach into Aladdin's forehead. "L-look, I wanted to talk to you about thiiings and you're bitey--"

 

Aladdin stops biting, flicking out his tongue to lick up some of the peach juice. “What kind of things?” _You don’t usually like talking._ But be that as it may, or that Judal’s never in his life asked Aladdin what’s bothering _him_ , Aladdin straightens up, wipes the peach off his head mostly, and blinks. “Is it your nightmare?”

 

"Not… _exactly_ that," Judal mumbles, reaching up to pluck a piece of peach out of Aladdin's bangs. "Though it is kinda weird that those came up after so long. I haven't thought about losing my rukh for years, but… anyway, have you felt at all like… someone's been watching us?" 

 

“Watching?” Aladdin blinks slowly, then unfocuses his eyes, looking at Judal. “Did you ever feel like that before? Is it magic? Maybe I can see it if I use Solomon’s Wisdom, do you think?” Maybe Judal’s paranoid. Maybe not. Either way, he deserves to be taken seriously.

 

"… Ever since the whole thing with Baal," Judal admits with a grimace, curling up a bit. "I didn't want to say anything because I didn't want you to worry about it, but it's been getting worse and with all these dreams, too… I dunno if it's magic, but it's _creepy_." 

 

Aladdin flops down, looking up from Judal’s lap seriously. “Who could do it?” he asks, a little puzzled. “You know a lot more about magic than I do. Who has the kind of power you’d need to watch someone really far away?”

 

"Other Magi… basically. But I doubt Scheherazade wants to look at me any more than I want to look at her, after the last time we showed up in Laem, and _no one_ ever hears from Yunan…" Judal groans, flopping back and pulling a pillow over his face. "I hate it, it's like someone is always _following_ me, waiting for me to mess up!"

 

Aladdin relaxes his eyes, going into that odd state Judal had taught him, looking at Judal’s magoi and rukh instead of his physical form. There _is_ something, he thinks--some kind of thread, a pale translucent thing, moving independently of his rukh, leading out the window. “Mmm,” he says, letting his vision snap back and scratching his head. “We should probably make him cut it out.”

 

"You can actually see something? I can't see anything, everything's all _cloudy_ because of all the black and white rukh missing and--" He's starting to sound a bit frantic. "What if it _is_ Yunan? What if he hates me because I… well, I don't know what I did so wrong that he's gotta fucking _stalk me_."

 

Aladdin leans forward, pressing a long kiss to Judal’s lips. Kisses always make _him_ feel better. “But you’re not crazy. That’s good news, right?”

 

Judal opens his mouth, then shuts it again, looking back at Aladdin rather like a confused kitten would. "What if I still am and that's why he's watching me?" 

 

Aladdin’s head tilts almost entirely to the side before he responds. “Then….you probably wouldn’t be asking that question,” he points out. “If you were crazy, you’d think you were perfectly sane, I bet. Besides, crazy people don’t make good pies.”

 

"… Aladdin, I really don't think eating people sounds good."

 

Aladdin’s hands are comforting, stroking Judal’s hair, his shoulders, his hands. “It’s just because I like you so much I want to be as close to you as possible all the time,” he explains pragmatically. “It’s not like I want to cut you up. I just want to….you know. I just want you a lot.”

 

"And people say I'm weird," Judal mumbles, though not unkindly as he rolls his way closer again, curling himself into a ball. "It's good," he quietly adds, "hearing you say that. I want you a lot, too. But I don't wanna make you into a pie." 

 

“That’s okay.” Aladdin kisses Judal’s shoulder. “I’m inside you a lot anyway.”

 

"Not enough, debatably." Judal thinks, hooking his chin over Aladdin's shoulder. "Would you beat Yunan up for me, if it's him? I mean, I don't think that's a good idea, but the thought is good."

 

“Sure,” Aladdin chirps, butting his head against Judal’s gently. “No one messes with my Joodly Joo without having a long discussion with me first.”

 

"Ehh?" Judal sticks his tongue out. "The phrasing of that is bad. No _discussions_ , phrase it like… 'No one messes with my Judal when I'm around', something like that." 

 

“Oh?” Aladdin ponders that for a minute. “But what if he’s got a good reason? Like he thinks someone’s gonna try and hurt you and he wants to make sure you’re okay? That’s why you should always have a long discussion first. Also it doesn’t matter if I’m around or not, I’ll always show up if you want me here.”

 

"… I don't think he cares if anyone hurts me," Judal admits, frowning. "It feels too creepy. What if he doesn't like me? I guess I might get annoyed if someone tried to mess around with the djinn that _I_ raised, but…"

 

“At least he’s not trying to kill you or anything,” Aladdin says, trying to stay on the bright side. “Maybe it’s his way of saying hi? Like a challenge or something. Maybe we’re supposed to go find him and he’ll stop?”

 

"But I really don't _want_ to go and find him--don't you know how creepy and weird he is? Also, he's really, really, _reeeaaalllly_ old."

 

“Then ignore it.” Aladdin flops onto Judal, blue eyes wide and unblinking as he slowly licks the tip of Judal’s nose. “If he tries anything I’ll go have a big discussion fight with him.”

 

"I'll… try," Judal allows, trying not to look too stressed out by the idea of continuing to put up with it, let alone ignore it. "It just feels really weird and I don't like it." 

 

“I can be preeeeetty distracting to Joodly things,” Aladdin says solemnly, wriggling on top of Judal. “And if you’re ever feeling lonely or nightmarey, just wake me up, okay? We can go flying or something until you feel better.”

 

"I do like flying with you." Judal flops his arms around Aladdin's back, heaving a sigh. "… Sorry," he eventually says, seemingly out of the blue. "I know it always seems like I'm the one with problems and stuff. Maybe I'm just a problem. I don't _want_ to be, but I've been thinking that's the case more often lately. You always handle everything so much better, and everyone likes you, and you're smart and… why do you want to bake me into a pie again? Your pie would be a whole lot better."

 

Aladdin regards him for a moment, then rolls over again, all the way, until they’re clear on the other side of the bed. “But I want my Joodleberry pie,” he points out, nudging his nose against Judal’s neck. “If I say you’re fun and sweet and cool and smart, that’s what I think. And that’s the kind of pie I want to eat, so it’s fine.”

 

"… But what if Joodleberry pie makes you feel gross and bad and makes you gross and bad, too? I don't want to do that, but sometimes I'm pretty sure that's all I'm good at." Judal frowns up at him. "Maybe that's why my rukh is turning black. Maybe it's supposed to be like that or something." 

 

Aladdin stares at him, then reaches out and flicks a finger sternly against his forehead. “Stop it. I’m not a little kid, I know what kind of pie I want to eat, and it’s the kind that makes me feel good every time.” He scowls, folding his arms. “Would I spend this much time with a bad pie? I’m better at eating than that!”

 

Judal blinks hard, brow furrowing a little in confusion as he attempts to follow between pies and rukh and stuff about him and _are they really talking about pie or people now he just doesn't know_. "O…okay. Yeah, I guess you are better at eating than that. I think." 

 

“Yeah. Good.” Aladdin kisses the spot where he’d flicked, still looking stern. “I don’t stay where I’m not happy. You know that. So if I say you make me happy and I’m still here, you know it’s not a lie.”

 

Aladdin _does_ have a point about that. "… I liked when we ran away together before," Judal admits, lidding his eyes as he looks up at Aladdin. "I wish that would work this time, but I think I'd still feel weird in other places, too." His fingers slide up, catching handfuls of Aladdin's hair to gently pull. " _Your_ nightmares don't happen very often, do they?" 

 

“Every night,” Aladdin admits, butting his head against Judal’s hand. “But I got used to them a long time ago, so it doesn’t really bother me much anymore.”

 

How could he even miss that? Judal can't help but suddenly feel like the worst … lover? Friend? Both? and also Magi? in existence. Ugh, he's not good at normal people things. Aladdin _is_ , for all of the oddness about him. That bothers him. "… But your rukh doesn't change at all, and you never wake up all… weird," he tries, for lack of a better word. "What are they about? I mean, if you want to tell me."

 

Aladdin stretches out, rubbing his face against Judal’s shoulder, eyes closed in quiet contemplation. “It’s the Solid Room,” he says at last, and speaking the words makes him quiver, just a bit. “Except this time, Ugo doesn’t get me out. He just goes back to being stone like everything else, like all the books I don’t know how to read and the walls and floor and ceiling all the same color. It’s cold, and even if I’m warm I know the second I stop moving, the cold is going to find me.” He turns, burying his face in Judal’s chest. “I think someone put me there to keep me safe, but I don’t know who, and in the dreams I don’t even think about that. All I know is I’m alone, and I’m always going to be alone.”

 

"… not ever gonna let that happen." 

 

Judal makes use of his long legs and wraps himself around Aladdin firmly, grasping at his hair and burying his face into the top of his head. "Even if something happened and you somehow got locked back up in there, you know I'd just blow it up and get you out again, right? I'm keeping you, so you're not allowed to be alone. You'll get sick of me and everything." 

 

Aladdin makes a pleased little noise. “Good. If everything is Joodly, I don’t have to worry.” Maybe it will help Judal to be needed, too. It helps Aladdin, sometimes. “Let’s just get really sick of each other, it’ll be really nice.”

 

"I want everyone to be really sick of seeing us together, too, like 'can those two even breathe without the other one around?' That kinda sick. The answer is no, by the way. Not so good at breathing," Judal mumbles, butting his face into Aladdin's hair. 

 

“Me too. We should start breathing out of each others’ mouths,” Aladdin suggests. “Maybe that’s what everyone will think we’re doing when we kiss a lot in public. Joodly air tastes better anyway.”

 

"I think right now they just think we're being weird Magi things. Which is also true," Judal absently notes. "We're pretty weird. Also, your name doesn't convert to weird nicknames very well, that's not fair." 

 

“It could, if you try hard and believe in yourself!” Aladdin insists. “You could eat some Alalaberry pie, probably. Not as delicious as Joodleberry, sorry. You’re out of luck.”

 

"Ala..la…alawhatthefuckberry pie is hard to _say_ , why would I want to eat that?" Judal complains. 

 

“Maybe it tastes better than it sounds! Or...Dindinberry,” Aladdin suggests. “Or...I don’t know, you’re easy. You’re my Joodly JooJoo.”

 

"Dindinberry sounds kinda creepy…" Judal huffs, grabbing and squeezing at him more tightly. "Whatever, I'll just be Joodle or something, and you're Aladdin as usual. I like it better that way, anyway." 

 

“Good.” Aladdin squirms a little, getting comfortable, then settles down. “I like everything like it is right now, too.”


End file.
